Writing a book about the first season of the Brooklyn Nets consumed 18 months of my life. I went all in with my meager finances to get a deal, attended 72 games, and even contemplated fighting the BrooklyKnight. I cannot even begin to calculate the amount of time I spent thinking about the Nets. It probably wasn’t healthy.

The journey to write Brooklyn Bounce has roots with this publication, whether dating back to a teenage version of myself enamored with SLAM 25 (Generation Nets: Champs by 2001) at a Barnes & Noble; getting credentialed for SLAMonline in college and having Brian Scalabrine school me on the ins and outs of interview technique; or evaluating games and atmosphere at the Izod Center with OG Russ Bengtson.

So what’s inside? The book includes, but is not limited to: a team affected by a hurricane; an owner that does backflips on his jet skis; meditations on Jay Z; Deron Williams’ catch phrase and Joe Johnson’s nicknames; scuffles on Christmas Day; game-winners; two coaches passing through the guillotine; and plenty of memorable moments, not only from the Nets, but from their opponents—LeBron, Kobe and KD—too.

I felt comfortable tackling this project because the Nets’ arrival in BK was both new and old. The franchise dates back to 1967 when they were the ABA’s New Jersey Americans and writing about their fresh start was also a chance to honor their past. And basketball in Brooklyn is eternal.

And the future? Well, any team in a budding borough is going to grow a new fan base and the story of the first rendition of the Brooklyn Nets is a must-have for folks familiar with the franchise as well as those new to the scene and future converts. There was also a side of me that wanted to capture extensively what covering the NBA in 2013 was like because, like the game itself, the game around the game continues to evolve.

While the Barclays Center glistened and the ownership presided with superstar presence, there wasn’t a singular charismatic force driving those Nets. In a way, that made the challenge more exciting; wonderful stories often live where few look. Deron Williams is an underrated character over the long haul. Gerald Wallace is fun to listen to. Each inaugural Brooklyn Net had a unique thread in the story and it was fun watching those various threads become more and more detailed.

After the Nets lost a triple-OT Playoff game to the Bulls in Chicago, Reggie Evans reflected on the experience. “You ain’t gonna forget about this game,” he said. “Heck naw. Naw. Not at all. If you’re a true basketball player you won’t forget about this.” I hope the readers of Brooklyn Bounce feel a similar passion.

The reality is pretty simple: LeBron James is the best player in basketball, and we’re not exactly in the position to argue with simplicity in this moment in time.

So James—like Shane Victorino leaning into an inside fastball—is the safe choice, the sure thing, a four-time MVP boasting talents that most people can agree (or agree to disagree) upon; for better or worse, an era-defining basketball player whose highlights and career talking points are served with your late night snack or morning coffee. Your opinions are your opinions, but standard-setting in the digital age of sport is something that LeBron seems to be chairing by himself, in this country at least.

So unless Kevin Durant shoots the ball so well that the NBA honors Antoine Walker by adding fours, or Chris Paul finds a way to play with an extra member of the Player’s Association invisibly setting back screens, that isn’t likely to change.

***

It’s the quest for a third ring that, in the interim, will muddy up the reflection in Bron Bron’s legacy mirror, a sheet of mostly pristine glass hanging on a wall somewhere between Akron and Miami—or even in Pennsylvania, because Pennsylvania is a swing state too, and if there’s anything a generation of millennials forever linked with the ’03 Draft class has learned, it’s that any election can feature binders full of women, Bushes, Dicks, Chads and/or malfunctioning voting booths.

I really like bringing up that last one in part because it highlights the difference between LeBron the growing global entity needing to prepare for the start of his second season after missing the Playoffs and LeBron the NBA finalist actually getting out to support Obama and help rock the vote four years later.

It’s not really a matter of taste, more about understanding power because the world’s best basketball player wields all sorts of cultural and stylistic clout.

It’s a bit of a situation to contemplate: ADD-addled ’80s babies fall in love with basketball and come of age by habitually ignoring a country’s politics and lessons in the classroom while remaining enthralled with the exploits of an athlete whose moniker is fit for biblical monarchy and thus demands singular focus. You can’t figure out which phone you want to buy, but you’ll drop everything to talk about King James when he’s leading SportsCenter.

Which is why it seems regular-season NBA basketball—and its 6-8, 250-pound torch-bearer—returns in full swing in November: to own the night and save the day, or maybe just to preserve the status quo so a World War isn’t fought because some bored kid downloaded the Grand Theft Auto 7 ‘This Is Real Life’ app for Android.

***

Now, about that Championship chase. Is LeBron slated to walk the path of his popularity predecessors (one, two, three rings) or is his journey more detailed, with new and different stops?

No idea. I’ve never wined and dined with Gregg Popovich the movie Sideways, or attempted to ward off a Paul Pierce-Kevin Garnett-Brook Lopez-Andrei Kirilenko quadruple team, or thumb-wrestled Metta World Peace inside of a live bear.

If the past is any indication, the third ring is not easily attained and often the quest is absurd, both in the hurdles tossed at the protagonist and the protagonist’s ability to escape near-certain elimination.

Sometimes—as with the ’89 Lakers, ’91 Pistons, and ’96 Rockets—fans and history are spared trilogies that were simply not meant to be. I mean, can you imagine Hakeem Olajuwon leading the Rockets past the 72-10 Bulls? He would have had to do it in REM sleep, right, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Dream Shake—something along those lines, no?

About those who have conquered three the hard way, consider: On the night Charles Smith had his shot repeatedly rejected underneath the rim during Michael Jordan’s first three-peat quest, Jordan—jumping and pumping his fist in pure jubilation—might have set his personal best for the emotion ‘ecstatic’ while darting into the Madison Square Garden tunnel.

Or what about that sinking feeling in your stomach when Vlade Divac knocked the ball over to a wide open Robert Horry, spilling an entire bowl of Lucky Charms on the Staples Center floor and helping to send the Shaq/Kobe Lakers to their third consecutive title?

Those are two just standout examples.

So what are LeBron’s Heat up against? You already know the nuts and bolts. The Pacers will likely be improved. The Bulls have Derrick Rose back (playing in actual basketball games). When Deron Williams comes back, the Nets’ depth casts a longer shadow than the summer sun in northern Scandinavia. The Knicks are weird and unpredictable. The West has a few contenders too, and let’s dismiss them in this space just to piss them off.

As for LeBron’s supporting mates, what exactly is each lacking? Last season, a member of the Heat spoke to me about how bored he felt. It was December. They might very well be getting that itch a lot this season.

Wade brought them to his house, and he has more moves to make.

Ray Allen hit the biggest shot of many, many lifetimes last June.

Mario Chalmers may still feel unloved or project that very feeling, which is why we here at Mario Chalmers Karaoke are here to make sure that you get to sing the song that you want to sing.

When it comes to rings, Chris Bosh already has what his silly detractors said he never did (a pair).

And Shane Battier will eventually take a GM’s job with that new expansion franchise in Albuquerque and bring Willie Beamon with him.

On some level, all of the above hokum renders this season a referendum on trilogies and LeBron (or, um, trill OGs and LeBron).

But that’s only on some level and LeBron wants to be the greatest ever which = some level + all the other levels. And, as LeBron himself noted, that’s currently a ways away.

***

All that noted, whatever happens this season with his mates, LeBron James is still the best player in the League, just as he was at the beginning of this post, and you could make the argument in 11 words instead of eleven-hundred.

Sky blue. Water wet. LeBron in the open court with options.

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I was rummaging through old yearbooks after moving out of an apartment that felt like little more than a metaphorical battle rap—no really, a few miles from the Knicks’ practice facility, the address is actually a metaphorical battle rap—when I found a few signatures from my childhood and then my high school years.

I was stunned by the bile I was keeping inside as a kid, energy that I channeled into sports and being competitive in the classroom, except at the end of the year when I would rate my classmates like a price guide, and then also the bile that came back. The answer was equilibrium, as much as it stung, the idea of one being drunk on writing.

One of the things that makes a yearbook interesting is how students, at times, play follow the leader—like a comment that creates a new perception about the person whose yearbook it is (inside of their own head). It’s elementary school Psychology 101, searing life commentary before the twists and turns of the internet. As a kid, I fired dodgeballs and ran with footballs. As an adolescent, I was likened to a duck.

Since I spent most of last year around Deron Williams and friends (see how DWill suddenly looks like the leader?), I decided to try and bridge those gaps. Williams is a Steelers fan, so I combined STEEL-CURTAIN-ESQUE signatures with deeply imagined (but hopefully balanced, resonant and thoughtful) messages from his hybrid homies in the L.

Regarding the fonts: regular is The Truth according to this post in time; bold is bold, somewhat in the past perhaps; and italics both futuristic and somewhere in between.

You might not have been Top 50 for much of last season, but you were Top 3-5 post-All-Star, so SLAM will probably rank you somewhere between 16-22 in their annual Top 50. Just letting you know. — Keith Ramon Bogans

I lived in Greece, too. Ghost wrote a column. For SLAM. Hope you’re well. The unexamined defense is not worth improving. — J-Chill

You might as well call me Oprah’s book club. Best of luck this year. — Mr. Jerry Stackhouse

Hey boss—I figured Plumlee would be bringing you your plums or apples or oranges or grapefruits or whatever this year—you still want me to get you the Daily News? Or you wanna switch it up? Times, Post, Newsday, Star Ledger, Record, AP printouts, or even the Brooklyn Eagle—lemme know. I mean, if MarShon helped out for parts of two seasons. — Tyshawn

Man, DWill, I been thinkin’: Since we family men and stuff like that, we family men. Kids the most important. Know what I’m sayin’? — Reg

You know, since I watch lots of NBA TV, I can tell you that I definitely see the Rick Barry in you. Should be interesting now that I have a new coach who’s used to doing more with less. Have a summer. — MarShon

REAL O’DONNELL

Remember: If you ever need help on defense, or with a joking matter, I’ll be there to make sure you’re defending my sense of humor. — Coach Lawrence

Since we’ve been teammates in places like Venezuela and Utah and New Jersey and Brooklyn, I’ll just free associate: Me…ow!…meow…meow-mix…deliveries…UPS…a new Bowflex machine…working out…personal training…working out more…necessary rest…hydration…the number 43…my elbow jumper…macaroni elbows…getting traded to Boston…living in Boston…oh. — Hump

From the passing to the present,how you move the ball, in many ways, defines what we do here. If it’s successful, it’s your playlist. But the stature of that success lies somewhere between Manute and Muggsy. — Coach Kidd

What about…a remote-controlled slinky…that has a twin (also a remote-controlled slinky)…sponsored by Vonage…and it climbs UP stairs…and does the Charleston…and talks like Count Chocula…and performs at halftime when we play opponents with shared ABA history… I’m just spit-balling here. — Brett Yormark

MEAN KETCHUP JOE GREENE

The ’13-14 Brooklyn Nets: From Soft Serve to Self Serve in One Linear Mess Hall. ‘Come on everybody, let’s do the conga’. (Mr. Cory Booker, IS THAT SLOGAN OK WITH YOU?) — Marty Markowitz

The first good performance of Andre Drummond’s career as an NBA starter came in his second try, against the Chicago Bulls on Easter Saturday in the United Center, an arena barely older than the 19-year-old Drummond. The Bulls hadn’t lost to the Pistons since December 23, 2008 and in each prior attempt this season, the Bulls had rallied from a 17-point deficit. It was also the Bulls’ first home game since breaking the Heat’s epic 27-game winning streak.

It didn’t look good for the Lottery-bound stragglers, fighting through yet another bleak season but the Pistons took it to the Bulls and built a sizable lead. Drummond scored his first basket on a tip-in and used his massive reach to beat Carlos Boozer to a rebound that he had no business corralling. He didn’t convert the three-point play, but still put the Pistons up 18-5 and checked out with 7 rebounds in 7:17 of game action.

Predictably, the Bulls clawed their way back into the game and the Pistons couldn’t even run with their most talented lineup down the stretch. Charlie Villanueva, in the game ostensibly for Drummond, missed the game-tying three. Jose Calderon was also in the game even though he had a tendon problem in his arm, making it almost impossible for him to summon the strength to shoot a three-pointer. Strange that Drummond, boasting raw power and game-altering athleticism, would be glued to the bench. But coming off of a back injury and too big a part of the Pistons’ future, Drummond is seen as an asset to be preserved.

“We’re still going to be cautious of his minutes,” then-Pistons coach Lawrence Frank said before the game, mere minutes after Kevin Ware broke his leg in front of what felt like the whole country.

Frank soon shifted into a hybrid coach-scout speak in assessing Drummond’s good qualities.

“He doesn’t even know how strong he is. He’s a strong, strong guy. But his quickness, his feet, his hands, his ability to finish at the rim…”

Frank also said Drummond needs to, “stay within [his] strength zone,”—i.e. play to his strengths while developing his weaknesses.

“It’s a little bit tough for me, starting a game and then coming out in different times when I’m not really expecting it, so it kind of throws me off a little bit,” Drummond admits, his soft voice the opposite of his jarring vertical leap. “But just being out there on the floor, it still feels great that I’m actually back instead of watching the game, so I can’t complain about the minute restriction at all.”

With such a close result, it was hard for Frank to hide how hard it is to win without Drummond.

“It’s almost like, I gotta beg [Pistons Trainer Arnie Kander],” Frank continued. “But at the end of the day, it’s: We’re not going to sacrifice Dre’s long-term growth for short term.”

Drummond’s ability to blossom when paired with Greg Monroe in the frontcourt is one—and perhaps the only—reason for Pistons’ brass to feel confident moving forward.

“He sees different things that I probably don’t see and I see different things that he doesn’t see,” Drummond says of playing with Monroe.

Monroe’s ability to score in myriad ways paired with Drummond’s dominance on the glass has Pistons fans understandably excited. Predictably, Frank turned big-picture philosophical while also tempering expectations for the twin towers tandem.

“One’s 19, the other’s 22,” the coach said. “Sometimes what we do is we’re very, very quick to rush to judgment on young guys. ‘Well it doesn’t work.’ It was four games. ‘Oh it does work! It’s great! These guys are better than, you know, Sampson and Olajuwon!’ It’s just going to take time.”

How good those things become may not depend on the Drummond/Monroe pairing, but the other pieces built around them. The Pistons nosedived after signing Ben Gordon and Villanueva to lucrative contracts in 2009. A team with a defensive identity quickly became an ill-fitting mishmash of gunners and guys on the decline. Four losing seasons followed the team’s last Playoff appearance, the loud reverberations of DEE-TROIT BAS-KET-BALL fading into a faint echo in front of smaller and smaller crowds in Auburn Hills. A post All-Star break malaise has played a hand in defining each season since 2008.

Gordon was traded to the Bobcats after last season and Villanueva’s deal will expire after the summer, but the Pistons have to move wisely. Continuing to build through the Draft while preaching patience—playing the role of the poker player slowly accumulating chips—would theoretically help in making a bigger splash down the line. Almost half of the Pistons’ 2013 salary commitments will be gone this summer when money owed to Rip Hamilton evaporates and Jose Calderon, Will Bynum, Corey Maggette and Jason Maxiell hit free agency, leaving the Pistons with a young core of Drummond, Monroe, Brandon Knight, Jonas Jerebko and Kyle Singler to build around.

There will also be a new coach. For now, Pistons fans have to dream on Drummond, the most tantalizing of that nucleus whose numbers (14 points and 14 rebounds per 36 minutes) presage great things. “My rookie year has been solid,” he says. “Went down with the injury, so…it’s been a great learning experience for me and I thought I got better each and every game.”

Regarding a summer ripe for development, Drummond says: “I could work on my back-to-the-basket game, but mostly—I mean, things I do on the floor, you can’t teach. I play hard. I play hard and I grab rebounds. What I’m really working on this summer is my free throws. Really, just work on my free throws and make sure I’m in condition when I come back.”

The free throws are a concern. Drummond air-balled a crucial pair at the stripe against the Bulls and shot just 36 percent for the season as if he was wearing Bo Outlaw beer goggles even though he would need a fake ID to drink.

I remember sitting courtside at the XL Center in Hartford last year before a Connecticut game, scouts and front office types salivating over Drummond as he displayed the layup line explosiveness reminiscent of a young Amar’e Stoudemire. He didn’t play particularly well that afternoon, getting outplayed inside by Notre Dame big men who will never sniff the League. It was hard not to look at the sleepy beast cynically. Yet the kid whose Draft stock fell has made a good first NBA impression, reminding many in the scouting business why they shouldn’t always jump to quick conclusions.

Oh, the Pistons finally beat the Bulls seven days after the close call on Easter. Drummond had a quiet night (3 points, 10 rebounds), but the result was a step in the right direction, and in his next game his minutes finally went up. Drummond went for 29 and 11 in Cleveland. Next season will come and the big man will check in, continuing—literally and figuratively—to move forward.

On a sunny September Sunday in Dover, DE, ESPN Nascar analyst Brad Daugherty walked out of a media room situated in the center of the Monster Mile racetrack and past large swathes of fans. A friendly “Hey Brad,” seemed to emerge from every other spectator’s mouth.

Then Daugherty, a five-time NBA All-Star and the No. 1 pick in the woebegone 1986 Draft class, started jogging to the set like he was prepping for a University of North Carolina alumni game. The 7-footer, whose promising eight-year NBA career (19 points and almost 10 boards a game for his careeer) was cut short by multiple herniated discs in ’94, bounded up metal steps to an ESPN production trailer.

It was, in Nascar terminology, “Separation Sunday” in the 2012 Race for the Chase. We sat down with Daugherty at the Monster Mile podium hours before Mark Martin and Jeff Gordon fielded questions in the same location after finishing second and third behind Kyle Busch.

SLAM: Growing up in a small town in North Carolina, you have all these interests: You developed business acumen at a young age; a love of racing sports, Nascar; basketball; you went to college early. How do you balance all of that?

Brad Daugherty: You know, I’ve never really thought about it. I think that’s the biggest thing. My parents taught me as a kid—as well as my brothers—to follow your passions and, if you have an opportunity to participate in something that you love, it’s a blessing. Growing up in the state of North Carolina, basketball—college basketball in particular—and racing were kind of like our state birds. My dad was a huge race fan. All of my family is very athletic, played a lot of sports, so it was a natural thing to play basketball, play baseball, play football, go to the racetrack, work on race cars, build race cars, race cars; it just didn’t seem to be that odd.

BD: My brothers were really good athletes. We all played basketball, baseball, football. I actually thought I was a better baseball player than basketball player.

SLAM: Big strike zone.

BD: Oh, but I could bring some heat… I mean, I played a lot, but when I got into high school, when I got into the ninth grade, I started to grow, and my buddies and I really started to focus on playing basketball, pickup basketball, because we could go do that in the summertime as something to do as teenage boys. And I got better and better, and I became a better athlete and then I really just kind of fell in love with the game. But it was about the 10th grade before I really fell in love with it.

SLAM: After a slow start, your Cleveland teams became mostly a pillar of consistency; good teams, made the Playoffs, but didn’t get too far. I’m curious what some of your specific memories are that you still carry to this day.

BD: Being there the first year. I come from North Carolina and it was all about basketball, it was all about tradition, all about being organized and doing all of this type of stuff. And I go to Cleveland and they had just hired a coach. They just hired a GM, literally days before I walked in the building. It was complete disarray. It was kind of a ragtag basketball organization. And I was just really blown away at how unorganized and how patchy and spotty things were.

SLAM: Like Major League basketball?

BD: Yes, exactly. And I’m looking at the guys that they had on the team. They had, I don’t know if you remember Edgar Jones and some of these guys. These guys were nuts. There were guys smoking cigarettes and it was just crazy. I didn’t know what I’d got myself into and I’d looked at their histories. They hadn’t won anything. They were terrible. They didn’t have any winning seasons. The whole culture there was really bad.

SLAM: You hear of Cleveland’s bad sports history: The Shot, The Fumble, The Decision, etc.—yet they were lucky to land you in a one-sided trade. Do you have to remind people of that, because if there’s no Championship…

BD: The ultimate goal in any pro sport is to win a Championship. Myself, Mark Price, Ron Harper, John “Hot Rod” Williams, we went into a culture of losing. And I’m telling you, we turned that thing around pretty quickly. But at the end it was just…to win a Championship in Cleveland there were too many things that—[long pause]—like losing Ron Harper, that evaporated that opportunity in my opinion. He was the guy that gave Michael something to think about when we played. And when we traded Ron, I remember Michael telling me, “Man, thank you so much for getting rid of him.” No one was going to be able to match Michael’s ability on the court, but, man, Ron was a hell of a player.

SLAM: The transition from teammate to rival with you and Jordan is interesting.

BD: Even when we played, we were friends. And that’s a Coach Smith thing. All of us North Carolina guys kind of always stick together. I remember I had a bad game against the Bulls and the next night we played again. Michael came out and he’s like, “Alright, get your game going,” and we’re playing him. And he’s like, “Get your game going, you know what you can do.” He was talking about his own teammates: “You know what you can do to these guys. Go to work.” There’s always that camaraderie as North Carolina teammates. That’s always been much deeper than any pro relationship or any relationship on a basketball team.

SLAM: You brought this culture of racing to the Cavs. Larry Nance enjoyed it. You had a teammate named “Hot Rod.”

BD: Larry was a blessing when he came from Phoenix. I’ve always been involved in racing, building race cars and I was always kind of alone. My team, they thought I was crazy. I’d talk to them about racing; they didn’t want to hear nothin’ about it. But when [Nance] got there, we spent a lot of days after practice working on his pro modified dragster and we got to know a lot of the NHRA guys who lived locally there…so we were in hog heaven.

SLAM: For the uninitiated, how would you describe certain personalities in Nascar, past or present, and how they relate to the NBA?

BD: This [sport] relies upon the car, the machinery. A $5 part can cost you a race. So that’s the difference. Personality-wise, there’s only one or two guys. When you look at a guy like Jimmie Johnson, who has intense focus, Jimmie Johnson is one of the few people I’ve seen who has got that cold shark, dark eye at times. I walk up to Jimmie sometimes and he’s in that race car and he has that same distant look in his eyes that Michael had when he was focused. I see the ultimate competitor in Mark Martin. He reminds me a lot of Larry Bird. Mark just will not quit. Mark just continues to work on his game, work on his ability. And Larry was the same way.

SLAM: You were out of the League when racing and the NBA merged in a tragic way. Bobby Phills, your former teammate, passed away while drag racing. That must have been one of the hardest things you’ve had to deal with.

BD: It was. Bobby was a good friend. I admired Bobby. He’d come from Southern University and made his way into what was kind of like the NBDL at the time, the CBA. He worked real hard, and he came to Cleveland, got called up because we had a couple of people that were hurt. And he came to Cleveland and I never will forget, the first time he walked into the locker room, he was scared to death. His locker was across from mine. And he was just sittin’ there, and he was trying to be calm and cool and he was so nervous. I went over and started talking to him. He was a tremendous physical specimen, just really strong. Didn’t have the greatest basketball skill, but was a tremendous competitor. Got to know him real well. Him and his wife Kendall became really good friends. It was a hard day when we lost Bobby—such a young guy with so much going for him, had some young sons there and was just getting settled, had become the guy that was the linchpin in Charlotte and was just starting to enjoy the fruits of his labor when he lost his life, so absolutely a hard day.

SLAM: On the brighter side, you played in a phenomenal era for big men. Who gave you the hardest time and who did you enjoy going up against?

BD: The guy who gave me the hardest time, night in and night out, was Sam Perkins. We played together at Carolina. It was the way Sam played. He could shoot threes. So then I’d have to go out and guard him. And if I didn’t, he’d shoot it, and then when I did it took me off the backboard so I couldn’t rebound. So I’d have horrible statistic nights against Sam. It was just aggravating guarding him. But the best center ever was Olajuwon. In my mind, he’s the best ever. I don’t even know if it’s close. And I always had great games against him because I was a lot bigger than he was and I was a lot slower than he was, so I didn’t react to his fakes really well. I stayed on the floor a lot. I think if you asked him, he’d always say that I read him very well, and I did. But I had a tough time scoring against him, too, because he’s so quick. So we would have games and I’ll never forget: We played against each other and he’d score 16 and I’d score 12; he’d score 11 and I’d score 14.

SLAM: How do I drive a car better?

BD: How do you drive a car better? I don’t know what your skills are like. But the one thing you can do—

SLAM: I’m confident.

BD: Now, that’s bad. One thing you can do: Give yourself plenty of distance. Be very patient. Constantly check your mirrors. Be patient.

I’m trying to understand something. If defense is roughly half the game, how is the best defender from the team that ranked third in defensive efficiency last season—a guy who is arguably the best perimeter defender in the League—the 26th best player in the NBA?

In part, it’s because so many respect the ball and who has it, not off-the-ball action. Having the ball and using it for your own good means power. It means you will score. It means you will be marketed.

But sometimes you have to defend the guys who defend.

Remember: Five years ago, when he was younger and not quite in his prime, Andre Iguodala scored 20 a game—well, 19.9—for a Playoff team with a solid defense… that he was a big part of. Oh, and he did that next to Andre Miller, who is half of the fascinating two-headed point guard monster suiting up next to Iguodala in Denver this season.

Iguodala was good enough to make the United States Olympic team and thrive in London. He was good enough to aid and push a balanced team to within one game of the Eastern Conference Finals. In a League so often defined by cool nerves under pressure, he was composed enough to bounce back and sink two free throws to finally get the Sixers out of the first round in his first All-Star season.

Yet, at least as it pertains to the voters here, the understanding of what Andre Iguodala embodies seems to have regressed when it was supposed to evolve. Are we still so jaded that when we don’t see stat accumulators insert*ball*in*hoop at a frequency that pleases us… we devalue their other contributions? Andre Iguodala was a better shooter last year when he averaged 12.4 ppg than when he almost hit 20 per; he just shot less.

All of this to say: please enjoy the Denver Nuggets this season. Please enjoy Manimal and McGee and Ty Lawson and Andre Miller and the talented folks sent back in the Carmelo Anthony deal. Let me be the last of hundreds of NBA diehards urging you fire up the League Pass and bask in Nugget basketball.

And the guy flying around the court for emphatic dunks and shot-altering close-outs for a team likely to win a ton of games and possibly make huge noise in the Playoffs? He’s always been this player, this team-improving talent; you’ll just be seeing him at altitude now.

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This is a feature on Andrew Bynum, but Andrew Bynum is grounded, so he won’t appear until about a third of the way through the story. If you follow basketball, you probably understand why Andrew Bynum is grounded. It’s not that we necessarily think Andrew Bynum should be grounded, especially considering the way some of the NBA’s other elite paint presences have acted this season. It’s just that society and this suffocating 24-hour news cycle has us by the balls. Don’t worry though, Drew is doing his homework. That’s right, he’s shooting threes.

There are some days in Los Angeles when the only normality is the high-volume traffic. Take a Friday in late March. It’s so chilly that the natives apologize on behalf of the weather. The Lakers are home to play the Portland Trail Blazers and upside down SoCal continues inside the regulated confines of the Staples Center.

Ramon Sessions, the Lakers’ new X-factor acquisition, gives an interview during which he’s asked seriously to opine on his dog, Sesh. Just so it’s clear: The dog of a point guard who has never averaged more than 30 mpg for a full season creates news.

Over by the visitor’s locker room, Kaleb Canales, the 33-year-old wunderkind interim head coach of the Blazers, is speaking. Canales, a Mexican-American who rose up from video coordinator, answers questions in Spanish and flashes an obvious knowledge of the game without divulging too much information on the matchup. Lakers coach Mike Brown is also a former video coordinator with no NBA playing experience. Prodded by a local media member to praise his enemy of a similar background, Brown offers a meek, “Go video coordinators!” to mark the occasion.

The game tips off. The Lakers take the lead and never give it up. Canales’ Blazers battle from buzzer to buzzer, coming within a point of the Lakers on four separate fourth-quarter occasions.

Kobe Bryant, ever conspicuous no matter what he’s up to, does his part in keeping things close, shooting 5-17, including 11 straight misses after a 5-6 start. It was only six days ago, following the Lakers’ previous home game, when Bryant partially blamed his poor shooting for a surprising loss to the Jazz. “I shot like shit,” he says. Bryant blamed unforced errors, his included, for the loss. “Unforced means dribbling shit off your foot,” he says, before concluding: “I mean, you can feel it when you’re playing like shit.”

The natural result of all of this (less than a week later) is that Kobe, riding 11 straight misses, banks in a free throw with the game decided and the crowd chants M-V-P for the lightning-rod legend. Fans also receive tacos because Bryant’s free throws push the Lakers past 100 points. And damn, what’s more valuable than a free taco?

Lost in the extracurricular noise is Andrew Bynum, the Lakers’ starting center and best player on this particular night—28 points, 12-20 shooting, 9 rebounds, 1 turnover. Bynum dominated early on, scoring 6 of the first 8 Lakers points as they jumped out to an 8-2 advantage.

When he posts up, Bynum, named an All-Star for the first time this past February, uses his massive hands to palm the ball and, arms extended, holds it out like his own personal keep-away toy. The shot clock ticks down, but it feels like time stands still, and for a few fleeting moments, the reality that we’re in the throes of the Point Guard Era vanishes in the presence of this growing tree. Bynum’s nimble footwork around the paint and his interplay with a pass-happy Pau Gasol are also positive developments.

Bynum would have been the best player on the court vs Portland had LaMarcus Aldridge not gone for 29 and 9, but Aldridge could still recognize that Bynum is blossoming.

“Imagine guarding somebody that’s 7-2 with a high release that shoots it about nine foot in the air and the rim is 10 foot,” Aldridge says.

Actually, it almost is hard to imagine Bynum back then, before an odd three-week stretch from late March into early April sullied his reputation and made countless fans and scribes mad about a litany of minor incidents.

A quick recap: Five days after the victory over the Trail Blazers, Bynum was benched for hoisting a three-pointer in transition, in the flow of a close game against Golden State. The basketball-obsessed on Twitter did what felt like one giant, collective WTF. Bynum said he didn’t understand why he was benched. After a victory over the Hornets, Bynum said instead of participating in team huddles when he was on the bench, he was, “getting my Zen on.”

Bynum was fined an undisclosed amount of money by the Lakers for “numerous infractions” detrimental to the team, which included apparently blowing off a meeting with general manager Mitch Kupchak. This meeting may have been called to discuss the need for Bynum to not obliquely criticize his coach, as “getting my Zen on,” whether intentional or not, references Phil Jackson. Jackson would be impossible to replace in any circumstance and Mike Brown knows this, as in title-happy Los Angeles a metaphorical scud missile is almost always aimed at his job security.

The follies continued when Blake Griffin posterized Pau Gasol; Bynum seemingly enjoyed it, making a face that sent Twitter into a tizzy once again. Then, for the second time in 10 games, Bynum was ejected against the Houston Rockets, the latter send-off for jawing at the Rockets’ bench.

His teammates seem to be on his side. One of them, conveniently named World Peace, defended his last ejection, saying talking trash is “the essence of basketball.”

Bryant told reporters: “I think he was testing the limits of his game. In some ways, the edginess and chippiness of him makes it very easy for me to relate to him because I had some of that when I was young. It’s easy for me to see where he’s coming from.”

The internet wasn’t so kind. The words “child,” “brat” and “petulant” popped up as if the people doing the criticizing knew Bynum intimately. It was as if Bynum, literally the longest-tenured 24-year-old in NBA history, was Bart Simpson and the pundits were Mrs. Krabappel begging him to repent by writing on an iDraw chalkboard. I will not pull up for three because that is not my game…I will not laugh when my teammates get dunked on…I will not pick up a second technical engaging Samuel Dalembert….

Of course, Bynum responded a few games later in mature fashion: by becoming only the fifth Laker ever to grab 30 rebounds in a game in a victory over San Antonio. After the game, despite his heroics, Bynum criticized himself for shooting 7-20.

And that’s the thing about Andrew Bynum: For every faux pas, there’s a big game. For every slip up, there’s a moment of thoughtfulness that hints at an intelligent youngster finding his way through the maze of NBA stardom. Because as long as he doesn’t lay out another opponent like he did JJ Barea last May, he will ultimately be judged by rings rather than regular-season things.

“I think Bynum’s composure—just like the rest of us, but especially him—is tested every night,” Brown says. “And I say that because this is the first time that he’s been double-teamed like he has been. A lot of people, when they watch the games, they’re like, ‘Man he gets double-teamed.’ Well sometimes, but a lot of times he gets triple-teamed…That’s gotta be a pain in the behind, especially when you know you’re skilled enough to score on this single guy in single coverage.”

The transgressions and the ensuing vitriol mask the fact that Bynum had—by far—the best regular season of his career, averaging 18.7 and 11.8 in 35.2 minutes per—all career highs. In fact, thanks to Dwight Howard’s back problems and coach problems and media circus-creating problems…Bynum may be this season’s best offensive center. And for all the criticism Bynum’s dealt with, thanks to Dwight, he’s not even the most offensive All-Star big in basketball.

It’s easy to see that on a team with two aging greats, Bynum is both the Lakers’ present and their future, and it suddenly makes sense that he breezed through trade rumors and the nixed Chris Paul deal unscathed. Some credit Bynum’s close relationship with the owner’s son, Jim Buss, for his untouchable status, but really, who trades their best asset when the asset hasn’t even—and we mean this in stock parlance—fully matured?

“I didn’t think he would progress as quickly as he has,” Brown says. “Especially once he started scoring and the double-teams started coming. He’s doing a nice job now. The great part about it is he still has a long way to go and he still has a ceiling, room to still improve.”

Adding Sessions was a positive step in aiding Bynum’s development as well, especially in the pick-and-roll game. Extricated from the triangle offense, the Lakers can now roll with basketball’s most common play.

“It’s so fun,” Bynum says. “It’s so fun, ’cause they did it to us every game. Play after play after play, so now we put the same pressure on them, which is great.”

Brown believes with pick-and-roll improvement, Bynum can take the next step: “If he can ever get to the point where you see Dwight sprinting in the ball screens and rolling with force to the rim; if he does that, oh my gosh. It’s lights out. The kid, that’s how skilled he is.”

“There’s always room to grow and we definitely can,” Bynum says after the loss to the Jazz. He was speaking about the Lakers’ on-court product, but he might as well have been talking about himself.

Kyle Singler won a state championship in high school and an NCAA title in college. During the NBA lockout, the second-round Draft pick of the Detroit Pistons led a Lucentum Alicante team that hadn’t finished in the top half of the ACB standings since 2005 to a winning record before he was scooped up by Real Madrid, the most consistently successful club in European sports history.

Once a PUNKS co-coverboy (along with current co-coverboy Kevin Love), Singler finds himself in a good situation. Yet almost two months into this shortened season, he is the young man who, spurred on by the lockout, put the League on hold. He currently makes more money in Spain than he would playing for the Pistons.

Real Madrid boasts a stacked roster and has needed Singler to play a role instead of being a primary scoring threat, as the team tries to capture the ACB title and win the prestigious Euroleague. As this story went to press, Real was playing well in the Euroleague’s second phase and one game behind rivals Barcelona in the ACB.

It’s the oldest trick in the poetry book—or Facebook for that matter—for an American’s life to be equated to Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken, but it actually applies to Singler. As his NBA buddies run around playing five games in seven days, Singler can play two games a week and get a lot of practice. He can watch some of the world’s best soccer teams live or chill at The Ham Museum (El Museo de Jamon). “I’ve done it quickly,” Singler says of his Spanish assimilation.

Like many post-graduate students abroad, Singler has taken to Skype and YouTube to communicate with people in all walks of his life. “I just wanna say thanks for all the support,” he told the Alicante fans before his last game with the team. “It’s been really cool to see.”

For now, Singler will keep seeing Europe and improving as a player. He will better the Pistons when he returns stateside. And from tapas to tip-ins, the road he’s traveled will make all the difference.

While pro hoopers tend to reach the peak of their abilities in the NBA, we take pride in the fact that we begin covering the world’s best players before they’re the world’s best players: when they’re in high school, still unknown to the majority of the basketball world. This week and next we’ll be looking back at the PUNKS features that introduced a variety of current NBAers to our faithful readers. Up next: the Derrick Rose piece below, originally printed in SLAM 102 (November ’06).—Ed.

by Jake Appleman | portraits Thomas Chadwick

In spite of the name, running the show for the MeanStreets Express AAU squad doesn’t automatically qualify you as a badass. Yes, his game is undeniably nasty, but Derrick Rose can’t understand why people think he’s got a mean streak.

“I’m not mean,” he says. “I’m so quiet; they probably think I’m mean because I don’t crack a smile. I’m secretive, and there ain’t too much I’ll say unless I know you. My teammates will tell you I like playing around. I only act different around people I don’t know.”

It’s easy to see where Rose gets his public humility. “When I was little, I was fat and yellow, so my grandmother nicknamed me Pooh,” he says, likely solidifying the first ever Winnie The Pooh reference in SLAM history. Despite the nickname, Rose agrees with the assessment that his game is more “aggressive, bouncing tiger” than “passive bear who gets stuck in trees after gorging on stolen honey.” Still, the kid who hit the game-winning shot for Chicago’s Simeon High in the ’06 AA state championship game is often short on words, letting his game spout off at the metaphorical mouth. His game has been so loud recently that some recruiting gurus have Rose ranked ahead of OJ Mayo among the best guard in the ’07 class.

Such shuffling in the rankings has further jacked up the alleged rivalry between the two Midwest lead guards, but Rose doesn’t buy the hype. “Between us? Nah, but people are trying to make it a rivalry.” When asked if he feels like he can stake his claim as the top backcourt performer in the much-ballyhooed class of ’07, Rose responds, “I don’t really think about it. I just go out there and play hard. That’s really it—make sure I get my team in the game and make them better.”

While he speaks like a true point guard, his game is so much more than that. Rose boasts so much athleticism and creativity, most people in the gym—meaning defenders and spectators—are usually left dumbstruck. Those who do speak can’t seem to stop drooling. Brian Hamilton of the Chicago Tribune describes Rose as “a 6-foot-4-inch guard with a gale-force first step and leaping ability that seems enhanced by hydraulic springs in his legs.” Jerry Meyer of Rivals.com tells the Tribune, “It’s hard to name a point guard in the NBA who is as athletic as he is.”

Incredibly, this gushing over his game occurred while Rose was out with a bum ankle at ABCD Camp—costing prep hoop watchers a couple of highly anticipated one-on-one battles with OJ—and before he notched a triple-double (including 14 boards) against Mayo’s D-1 Greyhounds in the Reebok Big Time tournament in Las Vegas. Speaking a month after ABCD and two weeks after Big Time, Rose says he still isn’t fully healthy. “I’m like 85 percent, because I still got this ankle injury,” he says, implying that the triple-double might not have come at full strength.

When it comes to comparisons, Rose’s size and his Chicago roots have many people thinking DWade; for his part, Rose says he aspires to be “a smaller version of LeBron.” As for his dominance in the air—he twice pinned our man Kevin Love when their teams met in the Big Time final—Derrick stays humble. “I just react to the way they jump,” he says.

“I don’t think about it.” Rose also notes he wants to punctuate his senior year with another state championship and admits he needs to improve his jumper and his handle.

With such hype—and attention from college coaches—surrounding him, one would think Rose might be affected. Not at all, he says. “I’ve been cruising through it with no pressure,” he says happily. “My brothers take all my phone calls.”

Once again, Derrick Rose will be just fine as long as he doesn’t have to do the talking.

Ever since KICKS 3 (summer 2000), each issue of the annual sneaker mag—KICKS 10 not included—has contained two or three new inductions into the KICKS Hall of Fame, where footwear legends past and present are honored. This may not be fresh material for those of you who’ve been copping the mag since before the new millennium hit, but for the younger heads, we’re posting the entire HOF online over the course of the next few weeks. (It’ll be archived under the KICKS tab above.) Enjoy, and don’t forget: KICKS 14 is on sale now! —Ed.

“I’m not a businessman—I’m a business, man.” The album is Kanye’s and the words are Jay’s, and they’ve run in these pages before in reference to LeBron James. And given the subject of this induction and his entrepreneurial friends, it would’ve been hard to pick a cheesier (pun intended) intro. But check popular friend-collecting websites, or just listen to real people, and it will become abundantly clear: there isn’t a more misrepresented lyric around today.

Whether you’re the kid who will work too hard never to see six figures, the kid who will never move out of your parents’ basement, the kid who will end up trusting your fund, or one of the fortunate few who will make your own way in this world, you’ve probably mimicked Jay’s spit-fire because you think it’s cool—and there’s not necessarily anything wrong with that.

However, in an era when a college degree will most likely bring you the vaunted success that is graduate school debt (best case), or a three-year contract at Best Buy, the immediate self-application of these words by today’s young adults ranges from ironic to nauseating. Please understand: If you have no control of your job safety, you’re not a “business, man.”

Fortunately, for the sanctity of Jay’s words and the generation mentioned above, LeBron James was pre-ordained as both a “businessman” and a “business, man” since he was a mere teenager. Just for KICKS, let’s check how LeBron fits each profile; think of “businessman” (BM1) as success and “business, man” (BM2) as unprecedented achievement. Considering the number of times you’re about to see the letters “BM,” feel free to insert some complicated joke about bowel movements and LeBron’s uncanny ability to shit on opposing defenses. Or, don’t.

BM1: Still just a kid, Bron begins to ride the wave of his unparalleled fame, letting many profit from his rising popularity. Most people fail to remember he won three high school state championships.BM2: Reverse-pimps the system after a legendary bidding war for his marketing services nets him $90 million from Nike. King James becomes the most important man in the shoe game before touching NBA hardwood, and remains so to this day. A signature shoe and all those custom AF1s only scratch the surface.

BM1: Exceeds expectations and picks up Rookie of the Year honors.BM2: Exceeds the hype.

BM1: Leads the Cavs to the playoffs; merits serious MVP consideration.BM2: Does it with Cavs’ major offseason signing, Larry Hughes, injured for most of the season.

BM1: Puts the Cavs on his back and helps them advance in the postseason for the first time in 13 years.BM2: Hits two game winners against the Wizards in the first round.

BM1: Alternates between distributor and scoring force during playoff wins over the heavily favored Pistons.BM2: Nearly leads the Cavs to the most improbable comeback in playoff history.

BM1: Signs a three-year deal for less than he could have in order to take advantage of the next collective bargaining agreement. All-Star Draft-mates follow suit; the move immediately revolutionizes free agency.
BM2: Ends speculation that he might leave the Cavs and re-signs with his hometown team. Cleveland fans can sleep at night because their savior is sticking around to try and bring them the title(s) they deserve.

The point is that we could’ve put him in this Hall of Fame when he was 18 years old. Witness that.

I’m writing this in Amsterdam. And it’s raining, which is a surprisingly apt metaphor for how I feel about Kevin Love: Amsterdam—awesome; rain—his ranking is probably too high. (Cue everybody at once: Jake is in Amsterdam and he thinks Kevin Love at No. 16 is too high! How high? Too high! How high? Redman!)

Put simply, Kevin Love is really well-liked by human beings. If you are a human being and you do not like Kevin Love, you’re probably a big jerkface.

Love takes basketball seriously and works tirelessly to get better, but doesn’t take himself all that seriously. So the adulation—his Twitter page bio says “Spread Love”—comes.

There are Jose Cuervo beach volleyball competitions, where the Illsbury Doughboy (as SLAMonline named him) transforms into his alter ego, SPF Pasty.

There are Entourage cameos with elves, erm, actors. (How Scott Caan could call Kevin Love a “UCLA legend” during one of those cameos was kind of head scratching, because Love only stayed in school for a year, but I suppose if you’ve never lost at pin-the-outlet-pass-on-the-donkey, you qualify.)

And there are Right Guard ads, dubbed “Love in the Shower,” where he’s showering in some random couple’s bathroom. Bizarre, but it works because he’s Kevin Love.

All of this and his gaudy, record-setting stats are why he’s listed as the 16th best player in the League on this list. Because he grabs rebounds as if he’s listening to the chorus of Biggie’s “Another”…

I have the quotes right here, from the Knicks broadcast team of Mike Crispino and Walt Clyde Frazier, that show how easy it is to love Love on a night when he makes history. This night launched him into another stratosphere of notoriety.

From a project I was working on last year:

Kevin Love has six points and nine rebounds at the half.

“Would you call that a Love tap?” Crispino asks Frazier when Love keeps a play alive with a rebound.

“Love hurts,” Clyde responds.

Love is snaring every rebound in sight. “Previously Love, bounding and astounding, Darko, swooping to the hoop,” Clyde says in his trademark rhyme. Clyde says Love is playing like a “man possessed.”

“Love has been maulin’ and appalin’ ‘em,” Clyde says of Love’s eight boards in the quarter. That gives him 17 overall. On Love’s 18th rebound, Clyde says it’s “like the ball is gravitating to him…”

Love misses a shot but grabs the board and gets fouled. “Perpetual motion,” Clyde says. According to the Hall-of-Fame point guard, the man at the helm when the New York Knicks last won a championship, the difference in the game is the “hustle and muscle” of the Timberwolves, “especially Love.”

The fourth quarter begins and Amar’e Stoudemire returns, having battled foul trouble. “Let’s see if he can put some chillin’ on Love’s thrillin’,” Clyde says. Wilson Chandler misses a dunk. Love grabs the rebound. He gets fed underneath and dunks, following a possession that he kept alive with a tip. Clyde employs one of his trademark lyrical devices: “huffing and stuffing.” This renders Love, quite literally, The Big Bad Wolf. Love ties the game on an open baseline jumper and then corrals a franchise-record 27th (!) rebound with over ten minutes remaining in the quarter.

Love misses a straightaway three. “That would’ve brought the house down,” Crispino says, no pun intended to Clyde’s Big Bad Wolf “Huffing and Stuffing” analogy from just a moment ago. When Love finishes a putback in traffic, Clyde says “the guy’s not jumping, he just has exquisite timing.” This is followed by Crispino calling Love ‘Superman’ and Clyde doing his best Judd Appatow film impression with: “we Love you, man!” He calls it, “resounding rebounding.”

When Wolves point guard Sebastian Telfair fires up an airball, Love sticks another putback, which gives him 31 boards. Crispino says Love is doing a great imitation of Wes Unseld (ironically, Love’s Godfather), the late Maurice Lucas, and Bull Russell. Clyde co-signs.

“No one has knocked him on his derriere” Crispino says, referencing what the Knicks will see when they study this game on film. Meanwhile, the Wolves have turned a 21-point deficit into a 12-point lead, and Love is the first player to notch 30-30 since Moses Malone in 1982. “Holy Moses!” Clyde says. Love checks out with 31 and 31, having played 40 minutes. He receives a standing ovation. “Bounding and astounding, resounding rebounding, huffing and stuffing,” Clyde says.

“Again, Love is hard to handle” Knicks coach Mike D’Antoni says, before noting that the Knicks missed Ronny Turiaf’s presence. It’s the first 30/30 game of my lifetime. I actually researched when Malone’s 30-30 game took place and that was five months before I was conceived.

Coming close to properly valuing Kevin Love the basketball player may prove difficult until he finds himself on a halfway decent team. Then the stats and the actual impact of his overall play can blend into a “performance soup” that helps fans and accuracy alike delight in spoonfuls of perspective-laden…whatever, this sentence sucks, you get the point.

In a league with personality and aesthetic borders that some players and reporters don’t cross, Love walks back and forth, easily communicating with all. It’s a skill, a gift maybe. Years of learning the game and the game within the game from his father while also tearing up the AAU circuit has put him in an excellent position to be a basketball ambassador of sorts for years to come. Expect to see him on TNT with Ernie, CWebb and GP in 12-15 years.

So…the co-leader of a 17-win team. An All-Star participant with awesome numbers and some impressive fundamentals, but a player with plenty of room for growth, one that shouldn’t be near his prime.

The list says 16. I say closer to the record-setting digit, 31. We might have to meet somewhere in the middle, where many of the rebounds are.

It’s not official just yet, but word is out that Yao Ming will be hanging up his No. 11 jersey this summer, and in celebration of the big man, we’re running all four of his SLAM features this week. We’ve already brought you stories from SLAM 69, SLAM 88 and SLAM 115, and below you can read Jake Appleman’s piece from SLAM 130 (August ’09).

by Jake Appleman

Eleven Chinese media members surround Yao Ming in the visitor’s locker room at the Staples Center before Game 2 of the Rockets’ second-round tilt against the Lakers. Somebody asks Yao something in Chinese. Yao responds in his native tongue. Everyone laughs. Somebody else says something in Chinese. Yao responds. Everyone laughs. The process repeats itself a few more times. With every response, the laughter’s volume builds incrementally. There’s something cool about what’s going on. So many NBA interviews have a put-on feel to them, as if all parties involved would rather be somewhere else. While much is lost in translation, this interaction feels genuine. This media cluster loves Yao, and Yao appreciates them. For someone so ridiculously famous, Yao’s down-to-earth vibe is palpably refreshing. In fact, many players from overseas have this type of connection with reporters from their homeland. Camaraderie is built out of a familiarity of language and a mutually shared momentary escape from a foreign land. For a literal giant in a circus that promotes aerial acrobatics, the grind can probably feel damn lonely, especially if, like Yao, there’s nobody else quite like you.

All of this to say, not only is Yao Ming completely unique, he’s also a paradoxical figure, the yin and the yang of the low post. He’s arguably the most famous person from the world’s most populated country, but more of his countrymen choose to wear the jerseys of other players they identify with (Kobe, LeBron, AI) instead. Yao’s the star around which his team’s offense orbits, but too often he just doesn’t get enough touches or shots. He’s 7-6, but his exuberance is about 6-2. He made significant statistical leaps in his third (double digit rebounds) and fourth (25 ppg) seasons, but missed the Playoffs both years due to injury. He might be the best at his position in the League, but few truly like to talk about it; maybe it’s that he’s a center who uses an unprecedented, new-age combination of height, finesse and touch to get the job done which frustrates pundits looking for athletic muscular bangers with megawatt smiles in the Shaq/Dwight Howard mold. To that end, he may rack up the All-Star votes, but he doesn’t etch his name in mid-February lore with dunk contest antics or potent quotables.

In a media climate focused on Twittering tweets and the word on the streets, it’s beginning to feel like Yao may never surpass the hoopla of his first two seasons. He was a freakishly tall and talented import, unlike anything we had ever seen; now that we’re used to him, American attention drifts away. It’s a League that markets superstars, and Yao has the grace and wit to be a true transcendent personality, but that only seems to carry over when he’s dealing with a Chinese media contingent. He’s a Hall-of-Fame talent who might be remembered more for how he helped globalize the game than for his game itself. During an era defined by quick whistles, speed, guard play and a dearth of legitimate big men, that possibility is unfortunate. Yet as he enters his prime, Yao has all the ability and talent around him to change that. As it often is in this League—and rightly so—in the end it’s all about winning. While the juxtapositions continue to pile up, Yao may finally be able to line up some of these skewed contradictions for two major reasons: 1) Now, it’s his team and 2) He’s finally gotten out of the first round.

In fact, the Rockets’ encounter with the Lakers is their first trip to the second round in 12 years. And today, they’re up 1-0 thanks in large part to a virtuoso performance from Yao. In Game 2, he’s lost to foul trouble for much of the game and doesn’t register his third and fourth points until early in the fourth quarter. After the game we ask him about the foul trouble and he responds, “The first two I have no comment. I have no comment. You need to play legally.” He also learns the word “split” in the press conference, which is fitting given his contradictory qualities.

He stays away from foul trouble in Game 3, and gets back into a groove in the first half. He showcases his patented eight-foot fadeaway from the left block on more than one occasion. It’s a shot that can’t be blocked because of his mammoth size. He also uses his body to aid teammates on their way to the hoop, sealing Ron Artest’s man as the Rottweiler drives baseline, and he follows speedy point guard Aaron Brooks to the hoop on a high screen-and-roll, which forces a help defender to commit off of Carl Landry. The result is an easy dunk for Landry. Says teammate Luis Scola, “He’s a great player, and when you play with great players around you, it’s always easier. Everybody has to collapse on him. Everybody’s focus is on him. And that creates spaces for everybody else.”

This activity from Yao benefits his teammates in another way: their three-point attempts are generally of the wide-open variety. Without Yao on the floor in Game 2, Artest was flinging low-percentage, long-range bombs at a pretty alarming rate. More often than not, when a pivot of Yao’s caliber is fed in the post and the double team comes, the ball moves out of it and swings from side to side with much greater ease.

The second half of Game 3 is a different story. Yao starts by missing a midrange jumper and the Rockets go away from their big man after the Lakers make some excellent defensive plays on him. Coach Rick Adelman is shown on the bench gesticulating hand signals that would seem to indicate a desire to pass it inside, but that doesn’t happen and the Lakers win going away. Stylistically, Adelman makes no bones about his desire to lead with height. ”He’s been our rock,” the coach says. “All year long, he’s been the guy. It’s always nice to say, ‘Let’s post him up.’”

When Yao breaks his foot in the second half of Game 3, everything changes. Most write the Rockets off, only to feel silly when they spank the Lakers in Game 4 in Houston. The Game 4 win gets pundits thinking that maybe the Rockets could be just as good as an undermanned hustle and flow squad with no certified go-to All-Star. The 7-6 barometer by which the team is judged is suddenly gone and mostly forgotten.

A day ago, at 3:53 pm, I got an email from SLAM contributor Michael Tillery that made me kind of loopy. Mike, who seemingly specializes in asking famous people lots of stuff, created this whole list of questions regarding LeBron’s return to Cleveland. Questions were sent out to everybody under the sun. Or maybe just me; I didn’t see the dis list. (Somewhat related: I’ve never seen Chris Paul play live. Not once. The Knicks denied my credential last year and I ended up at a freaky deeky Dutch-German-Jamaican birthday party. I declined an invite for this year’s version of that party, and, in doing so, abstained from voting. Yes, I love you; happy seven…)

Anyway, the sheer amount of questions Mike wanted answered was utterly ridiculous, so instead of fully participating, I figured I’d just write down a bunch of shit that corresponds with my odd relationship with LeBron James.

Just know that there’s a longer explanation to everything I wrote here, and that if you–the greatest commenters in the world that I know of–want, I can answer a few of your replies in the comments section. Not sure how many, though; depends on how taxed I feel.

And finally, congrats to Russia and Qatar on winning the ’18 and ’22 World Cup bids. High school reminds of a village in Argentina and a host constantly harping on the fact that “you are a Russian Jew,” and college is kind of like a grown-ass version of a Wesley Snipes movie. I’m partial to White Men Can’t Jump and Montezuma tequila and trash cans and tennis balls myself, but hey, that’s just me.

1) Woj’s office, circa 2/01

“No need for an expensive Saab cruise shtick / Alive in Tivo, alive in Vevo, listen to the music”

2) Kenyon Martin

“’Older freshman wrote something about Rueben Patterson and a nanny, he ‘wants to chew through her’ / plus a ‘hot tub party with the freshman fifteen and Mark Chumura’”

11) Famous people shouldn’t ask other semi-famous people to do shit for them, unless they’re sure said semi-famous writer is the right man for the job. Art over commerce. Barca over Madrid. Unless you wanna ditch Nike for Adidas. Then again, I might be joking, and I wear shoes based on how good they are—or fate—not who makes them. Wait—that explains my argument perfectly.

“You wanna understand America, research the NFC East / Wanna understand sports, research the hemisphere east…shout out to Kid, Mex and the Straw man / but also “the human prime meridan; a real amazin’ TCPer, bay-bee”

“It takes one gringo to explain Californication to 4 Argentines, but just one Argentine to explain to one gringo how to properly say “Che” /strange daze and Adam Morrison, only player I ever profiled that made me cry”

I wrote most of this a few weeks ago when the Soledad/O’BronBron interview blew up. Then I became extremely busy and shelved it because it wasn’t finished. I can’t quantify how much I believe in what I wrote here, but it’s Halloween, so maybe you can try and separate the masks and costumes from the people underneath.

Three years ago, I was at a party in upper Manhattan. I met a girl. She was a friend of my friend’s friend. Almost all of the girls at the party were teachers. Teaching for America. Doing the right thing. Improving the lives of our underprivileged youngsters.

This girl had graduated from St. Vincent St. Mary’s high school in Akron, Ohio. You probably know that LeBron James went to high school there. You also probably know that Maverick Carter went to high school there. You’re probably not surprised that this girl told me that she had drama with Maverick Carter.

Look at you, sitting there, reading this. You’re steaming. I understand. You can’t believe it. I understand. Not only does Maverick Carter seemingly go out of his way to ruin his best friend’s life, he then bluffs society with the race card, holding a 2/3 off suit.

AND ON TOP OF THAT, he spent his high school years beefing with a perfectly normal girl–a perfectly normal whitegirl–that only wanted to get an education so that she could educate others.

Oops. I’m sorry. I should have clarified: she said she had drama class with Maverick Carter. This girl said Maverick was a nice guy, too. I don’t doubt this. One national media’s metaphorical Porto Potty is another child’s life-saving fiberglass backboard provider. People are complex like that. Unfortunately, complexity isn’t trending.

***

If I was rich and famous, you know what I’d do? I’d do everything in my power to surround myself with my friends. I’m happiest when I’m…get this…happy. (You might think that sentence is redundant, but then you’d be insulting all of the people that are happiest when they’re miserable.)

What makes me happy are the things I enjoy: writing (a mostly solitary exercise, regardless of what your Internet friends may be screaming at you), playing sports, various forms of entertainment, and hanging out with my best friends. If you think for a second that I–or you, if you’re happiest when happy–would want to enter the pressure cooker of fame by yourself, you’re delusional. Or Lindsay Lohan.

And if you think some arguably poor handling of fame and a race-based non-controversy controversy is an excuse for one of the world’s most famous people to kick one of his best friends to the curb because he’s ‘being held back’, you don’t understand friendship…especially not friendship born of meager means, forged on late nights in a gym in Akron back when few cared. At the end of the day, when your head hits the pillow, one friend who would take a bullet for you is still more important than eight billion people that wouldn’t.

Fans aren’t friends. Fans come and fans go, like the hot and cold air they blow in your direction. You might miss the soothing breezes their standing ovations generate, but a breeze is a breeze. Temporary. Who stands with you in all types of weather? And if you’re so famous that your boy can–intentionally or not–tweak P.R. weather patterns, all the more reason to laugh about the inflation of this trivial BS behind closed doors.

***

Trust is earned organically. Friendship is an extension of trust. I spent three years–LeBron’s first three–intermittently covering the Cavaliers for Slamonline. Attended thirty-something games. Between, driving, watching, writing, driving and writing, each game was a 12-14 hour experience.

Amazingly, I’m pretty sure I’ve never met Maverick Carter. Maybe I did once and I don’t remember. Full disclosure: I do, however, remember shaking Randy‘s hand while interviewing some actors Nike hired to play The Fo’ Shizzles. I think Wes was there, too. (We then hopped a spaceship to Neptune and smoked blunts with the spiritual essence of George Clinton, while Dana Carvey played air-guitar riffs of a Jimi Hendrix song that’s so good, nobody has ever heard it. Oh wait…)

Anyway, listening to Brian Windhorst, Akru-weather meteorologist for the Heat Index, go on Cleveland radio and say that he got one exclusive interview with LeBron in seven years because LeBron’s people (read: Maverick) couldn’t control him was…interesting. It also reminded me that, aside from the very rare shooting-the-breeze postgame chat and a few quotes I got for stories I was working on, I did my best to stay out of their way. I mean that literally.

“Hey Jake, do you wanna talk to LeBron?”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good.”

This actually happened on multiple occasions.

Now, before you call me the biggest idiot this side of Ahmadinejad, allow me to point out that there’s something inherently awkward about a) being very green and very awkward and b) understanding that, when you value developing relationships organically, a premeditated, organized conversation with the most famous youngster in the country is automatically artificial in nature and predicated on said youngster’s massive fame. Basically, my line of thinking was: he’s a person and I’m a person. If he cared about getting to know the only reporter in his age bracket that wasn’t getting paid to write about Cavs games early in his career, he’d make more than the one effort that I bungled horribly due to wracked nerves. At the end of the day, though, I’m still a writer and he’s still a basketball player, so maybe it’s for the best. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

Now, I’ve never written a LeBron cover for SLAM. Is this because I ‘can’t be controlled?’ I’m not a betting man, but if I was…

And yet I’m not mad at Maverick Carter, the alleged puppet master that supposedly struggles with strings. How could I be? With a steadfast acceptance of compromise, a turkey baster, a networking superpower, and the knowledge of my own awesomeness–reflected back to me through the skewed prism of my own equally awesome friends– I could’ve become LeMahd Rashad. But that’s not me. I’m not a sycophant.

***

Here’s an exercise: Power Rank the words in the following sentence.

Maverick Carter is damaging the career of his friend, LeBron James.

I’ll do it for you.

1) LeBron James: Without those two words, you don’t give a damn about the sentence.
2) Damaging:Danger is implied. You’re riveted. And concerned.
3) Career:Long-lasting danger is implied. You’re even more concerned. This could be a movie.
4) Maverick Carter: So this is the rogue doing all of the damaging! Get indignant! It’s the Internet! You have feelings, too! And they count!
5) Is: Okay, it’s confirmed. The damage is being done. Someone said it. And you watched it. Every single hour of it. Every single 1-hour of it. Therefore it must be true. Because everyone that reports on LeBron James is actually inside of his Maybach, enjoying earnest pillow talk–the Maybach has many pillows– along with a glass of race-baiting Cristal. Yep, if this summer proved anything, it’s that “is”is the most trustworthy word in sports reporting. You can trust all of them. And you do, because they’re more like you than the man you can’t relate to. Now you’re really freaking pissed.
6) His: Wait, so LeBron James on some level belongs to this Maverick Carter fellow? The worst American Maverick since John McCain is running the business life of the best athlete in the country? You’ve gotta be kidding. This is a travesty. If I don’t vent, I’m going to re-enact the opening credits of Mad Men.
7) Friend: Hey, I gotta be honest here. Between Twitter, Facebook and a long conversation with your mom, I’ve already voiced my opinion in multiple forums. Not only that, I have seven new web pages open and I’m G-Chatting with four people about how angry I am. What did you want me to do, again?

Now, pretend to power rank these words from LeBron’s perspective. You can’t really, but just try.

We’re all pretty sure that LeBron’s inner Marc Stein isn’t very high on “damaging”, right?

***

Obligatory Jay-Z lyrical passage that explains everything so perfectly, you have to wonder why people even speculate at all. Oh, right. Not everyone listens to hip-hop.

Since diapers had nothin to live for like them lifers but Makin sure every n*gga stay richwithin my cipher
We paid the price to circular success they turned my mic up
I ’bout to hit these n*ggas that’ll light they life upIf every nigga in your clique is rich your clique is ruggedNobody will fall cause everyone will be each other’s crutches
I hope you fools choose to listen I drop jewels bust itThese are the rules I follow in my lifeyou gotta love it

“Feelin It”, Track 5, Reasonable Doubt

***

On the level of sheer coverage and interest, we’ve just embarked on the Internet’s version of the O.J. trial meets Scarface meets basketball, where enemies become friends, and frenemies fight for minuscule scraps of nothingness; kernels of truth nestled deeply in the standard postgame blather.

What LeBron does will reflect back on to Maverick, and what Maverick does will reflect back on to LeBron.

So I leave you with this: you might be LeBron’s friend’s friend, or the friend of a friend’s friend. Or someone that talks to him and breaks a story. Or a fan. Or my old buddy from elementary school that apparently hosted LeBron and A-Rod at a party in Miami a year ago. (Just think if I had pursued that lead. Maybe the city mouse could’ve won the rat race.)

All of this to say: this isn’t Facebook. He’s not your friend. And you’re not in his inner circle. And you’re not his best friend.

You just wish you were.

Jake Appleman is a Senior Writer for SLAM and a contributor to NBA.com. You can read more at JakeAppleman.com

So I’ve had this piece, in various incarnations, forever. And by forever, I mean two years. Literally. I’ve been tweaking this for two years. But I’ve never posted it. Mostly because poking fun of Stephon Marbury under the SLAM banner is kind of like walking into the Vatican and dropping a deuce in a Pope hat. Yet, somewhere between some insomnia and a stunningly normal end-of-October sight–college-aged girls moving through Manhattan in herds…herds dressed like a sluts–I remembered that you can do anything on Halloween. Without further ado…

What, you thought the most anticipated opening week in NBA history would belong to the multiple superstars that changed teams and the memory of the most exciting 7-game finals since the 80s?

Taking something infamous–screaming “THEY TRIED TO PUT ME IN A BOX!” repeatedly–and flipping it by blasting it behind the guitar riff from Alice In Chains’ “Man In a Box”? Spellbinding. Coating your throat with a thin layer of strawberry Vaseline and annihilating your naysayers in rhyme over an Ice Cube “No Vaseline” sample? Gross, but unmistakably fantastic. And that’s the worst thing you can say about the “Love Is Love” mixtape: “gross, but unmistakably fantastic.”

So here it is, his album dropping at the end of the Halloween weekend David Stern has been looking forward to since three superstars from the ’03 draft class changed the game by signing shorter contract extensions.

Basketball may be back in New York (relatively), but nobody cares because we got an advance copy of Starbury’s debut album, They Tried to Put Me in a Jukebox.

Here’s the review, track by track.

Prodigy:

Steph sings about the pressures to make it to the NBA after the repeated failures of his talented brothers. It’s a heartfelt song that makes you want to like him.

Where I’m From:

This is Steph’s ode to Coney Island. You kind of get the feeling that he’s out of touch with his old neighborhood these days, but his soulful delivery helps convey the importance of home.

Steph asserts that the ’06-07 Knicks’ inability to make the playoffs wasn’t his fault (mostly true)-but, in doing so, castigates his teammates.

Choice lyric: “Back in NYC, I’m the hostess with the mostest / too badJerome James isthe mostest with the Hostess”

What up, Cuz? What up, thug? What up, gangsta?:

Steph addresses issues within his family, including a rumored feud involving his cousin, Sebastian Telfair of the Minnesota Timberwolves, and the controversial YouTube video Telfair’s half-brother, Jamel Thomas, put up–and has since removed. Family beef, even between divas, can seem unnecessary sometimes. This is one of those times.

Choice lyric: “The haters used to call my dribbles ‘carries’ / Now I outfit them for $29.99 at Steve & Barry’s!”

“We Got Zach Randolph! We Got Zach Randolph!” (skit):

The enthusiasm is unwarranted.

I’m Mike’d up:

Steph recounts his infamous interview with Bruce Beck. Solid entertainment value due primarily to the fact that he sampled the entire interview in the background.

Phone Call (skit):

Steph interrupts the track to take a phone call. It’s mostly unintelligible.

My Better Half:

Steph references something derogatory he said about his wife to Bruce Beck and sets the human race back a good 15 to 20 years in the process.

Intern in the Back of a Truck:

Here Steph sets the human race back even further. He hasn’t been born yet.

Isiah 3:16:

Steph lists, in his dulcet baritone, everything he knows about Isiah Thomas. It’s hard not to suddenly feel sorry for Steph again, and that’s the essence of Starbury: just when you think you’ve quit him, he wraps you back in like basketball’s answer to the psychotic supermodel girlfriend.

Tattoo on my Head:

Like sandals with socks, indefensibly bad.

Say A Little Prayer For You:

Steph sings an a capella biblical passage to all the heathens that have covered him throughout his career; ignorant, but surprisingly well performed.

You Can’t Buy My Soul Out:

Steph badly mangles various themes that shouldn’t go together (money, spirituality, survival at the workplace). It’s like he took the absolute worst of 50 Cent, put it in a bottle, cross-pollinated it with the worst of R. Kelly, and then didn’t try.

Boston Me Party:

Steph rambles on and on about finally getting to play for a winner. The song fits with the rest of the album because it adds another layer to an already rich tapestry of bizarre lyrical fabric.

Choice lyric: “Trying to take down the Magic / Just run the offense, rabbit / No more Starbury, you’re Goran Dragic”(Bonus points for the mispronunciation of Dragic’s last name.)

Chinatown:

Steph enlightens the masses, spitting fiery bars about his dominance in the China Basketball League.

Steph celebrates his official return to the public sphere with a track that simultaneously epitomizes his grating persona and incoherent brilliance. He’s like a fully liberated Weezy, except his cough syrup is life.

It’s an unsatisfying end to an uneven album. The talent and desire are evident throughout, but the will to make use of everything available-to make it the best it can be-is definitely not.

At least it’s entertaining.

Jake Appleman is a Senior Writer for SLAM Magazine and a contributor to NBA.com. Stephon Marbury was his favorite player in 1999. Read more at JakeAppleman.com

A few weeks ago, I launched JakeAppleman.com, my personal website and one-stop-shop for everything me. You should check it out. Included is today’s post, a satirical take on ESPN.com’s removal of a story about LeBron James written by Arash Markazi. I know, I know, that happened weeks ago—months, maybe years in internet time– but it’s still a good time. At least I hope so. Otherwise, I’m in the wrong business.

I would’ve broken the fake story here, but that would have been immoral. A brand reporting and breaking news about itself on one of its own platforms, all while crediting itself. Who does that?

Final word today goes to Wale: “I could change a broad’s life in about an hour / I turn Ducks into Bucks, Luke Ridnour”

A meth addict gave me some good advice once. Or at least I thought it was.

“Image is everything.”

Similar adages, such as “a man lives by his reputation” or “perception is reality” had long existed, but for some reason the junkies resonated with me more. Probably because I saw it on television. Regardless, I heeded the advice because it made sense to me; since so much of your life is left to the control of others, who you believe yourself to be doesn’t matter as much as who others believe you are. The relationships, opportunities, privileges and epitaphs bestowed upon us are all based on who we are perceived to be. So live accordingly.

It wasn’t until later in life that I learned not to take advice from junkies. Image isn’t everything, because image-or perception-is purely subjective. Our thoughts and deeds are left to the interpretation of those who have been shaped by their own experiences. Everyone has their own biases, everyone doesn’t forgive-or forget, for that matter-and it’s simply impossible to please them all. We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

Which brings us to Kobe Bryant.

This is his 14th season, one which has shown the effects of more than 35,000 minutes of basketball. He’s battled broken fingers, aging knees, a sprained ankle and an ailing back to the cusp of yet another championship, though he may fall short. Again. But no matter the result of this evenings contest-or Thursday’s, if necessary-the most impressive injury Bryant has overcome is one which he suffered quite some time ago. His psyche.

From the moment he slid those sunglasses off and announced his decision to go pro, he was perceived as a spoon fed primadonna. From the moment he entered the league alongside a man who would turn the marketing model on its ear, his racial identity has been questioned. From the moment he dared to question the work ethic of an established, but complacent superstar and the authority of a well decorated, but manipulative coach, he’s been deemed too ambitious. And from the moment he exited that hotel room, he surrendered the benefit of the doubt.

A series of moments, spliced into his highlight reel and the collective consciousness, the effects of which have left us with the man who stands here today, jaw jutted and eyes narrowed. A man who pretends not to give a fuck what you think while making it quite evident that he plays for your approval. Such is the dichotomy of being Kobe Bryant. For there is a distinct difference between being the one in the history book and being the one who writes it.

There are some who will tell you that this evenings events will ultimately shape his “legacy”, another subjective term. You won’t find them here. But alas, Kobe doesn’t give a fuck what we think. Right? Maybe you will.

Kobe Bryant continues to have what is arguably the most fascinating, enthralling, frustrating, and bizarre career of any NBA Hall of Famer.

Things started off so promisingly, then disaster struck, and then he somehow pulled it all back together and redeemed himself in the court of public (and athletic) opinion.

Tonight — and potentially, Thursday night — he gets yet another opportunity to rewrite his story. His own brilliant, divisive, twisted, convoluted, and endlessly fascinating story.

A loss to Boston this summer provides his critics with plenty of ammunition: he’s no Jordan and never will be; he’s not the greatest Laker; the ’09 title was a “fluke”; he can’t make his teammates tougher and better; etc.

(Key thing to remember in all of this: Magic Johnson won five NBA championships. Along the way, Johnson and his Lakers lost in the title round FOUR times. And last time I checked, no one considers his career a let down in any way.)

A win, an improbable comeback against this determined, defensively-great Boston Celtics team validates what Kobe Bryant’s defenders have always known: he’s right up there with the G.O.A.T.; five titles in seven trips to the championship round can’t be denied; there’s plenty of time left to gobble up more gold trophies; he’s the best player on the planet, and has been for years.

In the end, none of that really matters. And then again, it all matters. Every twist, turn, triumph and defeat.

The man has had — and continues to have — an amazing run. Though his place in today’s game, and in the grand history of the League will continue to be debated breathlessly and endlessly, Bryant’s body of work will stand alone, without need for comparison to other greats.

When we look back on his career, no intelligent person is going to think to themselves, “Kobe was a great player. Could’ve been one of the greatest if only he found a way to beat those Boston teams in either 2008 or 2010.”

Bryant’s story won’t come to an end tonight, or even later on this week. This series — with all of its history, nostalgia, andgrainy video clips — will not define his legacy. It will serve as an important chapter in the grand book of his career and life.

There is plenty of basketball left for Kobe Bryant, many more chapters yet to be written.

A win would help (a little), and a loss would hurt (a bit), but no matter the outcome of this year’s NBA Finals, Kobe Bryant’s legacy is pretty well set. Short of him winning at LEAST two more championships in L.A., Bean will be remembered in 10 or 20 years for what he was (or, I guess, is): A wonderful basketball player whose athleticism and competitiveness and F-U knack for late-game heroics brought him closer than anyone has ever been to Michael Jordan. We can argue scoring averages and nitpicks stats, but nobody who has actually watched both of them in their prime could argue that Kobe couldn’t do pretty much everything Mike did. He bit the style like a true method actor, Jamie Foxx in Ray, thoroughly believable and nearly as effective.

But again, only nearly.

In the legacy stakes, Kobe’s gate opened too late to ever really give him a chance. Dude didn’t have his own team until almost a decade into his career. Those first three rings will never be his, not in the way all six of the Bulls’ belong to Mike. Those Finals MVP statues will always belong to Shaq, now matter how clumsily he has stumbled to the finish, no matter how insecure he’s been, no matter that he wouldn’t have won them without Kobe. When Kobe got his fourth, it was, in a sense, only his first. It’s not fair, except that it is, and nothing he can do now will change it.

Two wins in the next three days would help, of course. Somehow making it a three-peat next year would help a lot. He’s in that top-10 conversation, maybe even nudging his way into the top half, but even then, he’s not Mike. Not quite. He’d need to top Jordan, do one thing clearly better than the guy whose game he has aped since Day 1. Can you see him winning three MORE? With that mileage, on those knees?

And if the Celtics close this out, and Kobe never wins another ring? He’s still got four. Rare air. Ridiculous totals and averages. Player of the ’00s, by a mile. Best player in what might be the best Draft class ever. Legendary. Either way.

Just not Mike.

Even if he is as good as Jordan, he’ll never be as good as Jordan. I long ago stopped trying to figure the dude out, so I don’t know if he can be content with that reality. For his sake, I hope so.

According to Basketball-Reference.com, Kobe Bryant has played 1,217 total games in his career up to this point. According to the law of averages–or the average NBA career–that’s already a lot of basketball games. According to the Ed Rooney’s secretary, Kobe Bryant has never taken a day off from school. According to a lot of people–at least according to this email sent to me by Myles Brown–Kobe Bryant’s legacy can be defined, or significantly altered, by what he does in the next one or two games in Los Angeles. According to me, that might be one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard.

Kobe Bryant will still be Kobe Bryant–one of the greatest basketball players of all-time, and a man that occasionally struggles with a protruding jaw–regardless of the outcome of the 2010 NBA Finals. If the Lakers do what the ’94 Houston Rockets did and win games 1,3,6 and 7 of a rugged series against a phenomenal defensive outfit, it will be one more remarkable thing Kobe Bryant has done in his already remarkable career. If he fails, well, he put up a valiant effort–with some single-handed gunslinging for the ages–against a starting five that still hasn’t lost a series when healthy.

The reason we want what happens to Kobe to mean something in the annals of NBA history is because it gives us–the media and fans–the illusion of control over something we have no control of.

Basketball is a team game. If the Lakers lose, it means, in a seven-game series, the Lakers–the team that Kobe Bryant plays for and leads into battle–lost to the Boston Celtics. It means the team with four All-Star caliber players beat the team with two superstars and a fantastic supporting cast. And it means, finally, that you, the beholder, have the choice to place uncredited, irrelevant *importance* on the legacy of a single player because that’s your prerogative as an American in this wonderfully corrupt democracy. Nothing more. Nothing less. You won’t be deciding anything that hasn’t already been decided. You’ll just be talking; something that can, admittedly, be very fun.

Win, lose or draw (brought upon by some sort of awful land oil spill fire apocalypse) Kobe Bean Bryant will still be the NBA’sDexter: the basketball player that kills basketball players.

Kobe Bryant has played 45,092 NBA minutes in his career. He’s played in 196 playoff games, appeared in seven NBA Finals, won four titles. He’s failed over and over and over again in his… whoops, wrong line. Anyway, he’s done all that, accomplished so much, yet we’re supposed to believe that the next game – or possibly two — will be the ones that define his entire legacy?

Please.

If he wins, what of it? He still has fewer rings than Jordan, only ties Magic (who, by the way, won his five rings in nine Finals appearances. I’m not so good at math, but I think that means he lost in the Finals four times). Either way, win or lose, Kobe winds up with the vague distinction of being “in the discussion” with Jordan as the greatest ever. For your convenience, I’ve transcribed that discussion here:

“You know, Kobe Bryant is every bit as good a player as Michael Jordan was. Jordan always talked about how he wouldn’t have gotten to where he did if he wasn’t able to stand on the shoulders of guys like Doc and David Thompson. Can’t Kobe say the same thing? He built his game off Jordan’s blueprint, and Magic’s, and Bird’s. I know he only has four/five rings, I know he’s lost in the Finals, I know he didn’t win them all as the undisputed alpha dog, but it’s a different era, with different competition. Right? Is it so unreasonable to consider Kobe the best player of all time?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Jordan had Scottie Pippen, who was his near-perfect complement in every way. He had the benefit of playing for Phil Jackson before everyone in the League knew what his methods were. And his opponents were all fatally flawed in some way. Who was the best team the Jordan-era Bulls ever beat? The Jazz? The Sonics? Do any of those teams even make the Finals in the current West? Isn’t it entirely possible that Jordan’s perfect record in the Finals had as much to do with luck as it did with his oft-cited – and Nike reinforced – indomitable will?”

“No.”

“F*ck it, let’s order a pizza.”

Let’s say that the Celtics go on to win one of these final two games. Does that mean Paul Pierce – or Kevin Garnett – is better than Kobe Bryant? Does it mean they want it more? Of course not. All it means is that the 2010 Celtics were better than the 2010 Lakers for two weeks in June.

What if the Lakers win? After all, all they need to do is protect home court. This is what they played all season for. And in order to do that, they need more from Kobe’s alleged supporting cast. He can’t rebound for them, or hit free throws for them, or stop them from taking ill-advised threes. (Well, he could do that, but it would be unprecedented.) Either way, a team will win this Finals.

As for Kobe’s legacy, well, that’s already been determined in the hearts and minds of journalists and fans and Hall of Fame voters everywhere. Is it possible that these next 48 minutes negate the past 45,000? As Kobe himself, might say: No. Not at all.

McDonald’s All-American Game (Boys) March 31, Value City Arena, Columbus, OH
Things popped off with the Powerade JamFest, where Canadian-bred Cory Joseph shot the lights out to take home the three-point crown. Baltimore native Josh Selby won the dunk contest and despite standing just 6-3, killed a between-the-legs jam off of the bounce.

When the bright lights came on and the actual game went live on ESPN, the Class of 2010 Punks went hard. This wasn’t your ordinary all-star game filled with uncontested breakaways and AND 1 mixtape plays. These dudes took pride in repping their side.

“It all started on the bus,” 6-11 Baylor recruit Perry Jones said. “We all started talking a little ish and were excited to go out there and get the win.”

Jones started off slow but had some sick jams down the stretch for the East. Future Duke point guard and Jersey kid Kyrie Irving was the best playmaker in the game, scoring and getting the ball to everyone in the right places. The tough man award had to go to

Tennessee signee Tobias Harris, who dropped 13 points in 12 minutes while playing with a broken bone in his foot. For the West, 7-0 Fab Melo was the defensive star after posting a workman-like 7 boards, 4 dimes and 3 blocks. Do-it-all Portland native Terrence Jones had 14 points while playing all five positions on the court.

Hometown kid and future Buckeye Jared Sullinger won MVP for the East, after dropping 22 and 7 and showing his ability to stretch the D with his outside jumper. For the winning West squad, UNC-bound SLAM Diary keeper Harrison Barnes got the award for being top dog with his 18 points. But it was SLAMonline’s McDonald’s Game blogger, Brandon Knight, who came up big in the clutch. After struggling early, Knight got the rock, drove right, and may or may not have pushed off before drilling the game winning three for the West with three ticks left on the clock. “You’ve got to have confidence in your shot, no matter what,” Knight said. “I went up with confidence and it worked out.”—Rodger Bohn

******

McDonald’s All-American Game (Girls)
March 31, Value City Arena, Columbus, OH
The girls’ portion of the Powerade Jam Fest was owned by Maggie Lucas, who took home the three-point contest trophy with her 22-point performance. Not short on swag, she thought she could have given boys king Cory Joseph the business.

“Oh, I think I would’ve won it!” the future Penn State guard said. “My dad and brothers were both shooters, so I’ve been working on this for a long time.”

When the game rolled around, it seemed as if the girls were rocking shoulder pads with the physical style of play the game featured. “We had a great group of personnel and level of aggressiveness,” the nation’s top senior, Chiney Ogwumike, explained. “We were all incredibly competitive.”

The West came away with an 84-75 W in the brawl. Meighan Simmons copped MVP for the West after dropping 21 points, including a number of slick takes to the cup that we’ll surely see at Tennessee next year. Florida State-bound Natasha Howard was the East MVP after posting 21, 9 and 5 in defeat.

At the end of the day, all of the hard work these ladies put in on the court went toward a great cause. All proceeds went to Ronald McDonald House Charities of Ohio and the positive effects visiting the local Ronald McDonald House had on the players will last forever. “It was definitely the most memorable moment,” Notre Dame recruit Kayla McBride said afterward. “It made me realize how fortunate I am, and it was cool to help out myself. It was a real eye opener.”—RB

******

ESPN/Rise NHSI
April 1-3, Coppin State Physical Education Complex, Baltimore, MD
After their coming-out party at last year’s inaugural National High School Invitational, Henderson (NV) Findlay Prep proved to the nation they could do it all once again. The biggest surprise of the event came when national powerhouse and last year’s runner-up Mouth of Wilson (VA) Oak Hill was defeated by Beckley (WV) Mountain State in the first round. The upset eliminated the possibility of Findlay reliving last year’s championship game against Oak Hill. There were other dramatic moments as well. After dropping 37 points on Arden (NC) Christ School in the tourney opener, Austin Rivers and his Winter Park (FL) High team fell short against top-seed Montverde (FL) Academy, 62-56, despite Rivers’ 26 points and 11 boards.

Montverde had the duo of Villanova-bound James Bell and Marquette-recruit Jamail Jones. Both wings featured a nice inside-outside combo game filled with high-flying jams. Jones put up 25 points and 8 rebounds, while Bell finished with 17 points and 11 rebounds in their victory over Winter Park.

Findlay Prep made their way into the championship game after an easy 68-53 win over Mountain State. Undecided Cory Joseph single-handedly took care of business. He proved his name deserves consideration as the top guard in the senior class with his 32-point performance.

The championship held up to its hype as neither team could pull away in the first half. But Findlay Prep’s trio of Joseph (17 points, 3 steals), Texas-bound Tristan Thompson (15 points, 11 rebounds) and rising senior Nick Johnson (13 points) would eventually be too much for Montverde to handle en route to a 59-46 win. Can you say repeat?—Franklyn Calle

*****

Albert Schweitzer Tournament
April 3-10, Mannheim, Germany
“All I’m going to say is that this is one of the best friggin’ experiences of my life,” US Coach Larry Krystkowiak told his team in the locker room after they fell to Germany 64-59 in the semifinals of the biggest international high school tournament that isn’t the World Championships.

Tired from seven games in eight days, the US lost to Germany’s U-17 team in the bronze medal game to finish in fourth place for the second straight time, a disappointing yet respectable accomplishment for a squad that had to gel on the fly and face opponents who had been together for years. The Americans were led by speedy point guard Ryan Boatright, who finished second in the tournament with 19.6 ppg. Team captain Royce Woolridge (9.9 ppg) logged the most minutes for the Americans and worked unselfishly on both sides of the ball.

Kevin Ware (9.6 ppg) started on the other wing and wowed the crowd with a few highlight-reel dunks while shooter Damian Leonard (13.3 ppg) came off the bench to lead the tournament in threes attempted and made. Unheralded big man Chris Manhertz finished third in the tournament with 8.6 rpg—and believe us when we say he plays like a Manhertz. Backup point guard Farooq Muhammed ran the offense well while bigs Marshall Plumlee and Michael Turner battled down low. Josh Henderson and Andrew White popped off the bench during medal competition to provide much-needed lifts; Henderson with assertive play down low, White with an assortment of smooth mid-range jumpers. US Army brats Dillon Wadsack and Jamal Tuck also dutifully served Team USA, Wadsack adding backcourt depth throughout and Tuck contributing in the bronze medal game.

Team USA was well constructed by adidas’ Darren Matsubara. Krystkowiak, a former NBA player and head coach (Bucks in ‘07-08), had help from assistants Scott Willard, Willis Holliday and Francis Williams. Australia, led by Jackson Aldridge, Hugh Greenwood and tourney-MVP Mitchell Creek, defeated Germany in the final. To read 7,000 or so more words about being all-access with Team USA—a great friggin’ experience in its own right—check out my blog on SLAMonline.com.—Jake Appleman

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/slam-139-graduation/feed/3SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans, Vol. 9http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-9/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-9/#commentsTue, 25 May 2010 16:01:11 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=77009

Seven games in eight nights. Coming back to the gym at 1 p.m. after leaving at 10 the previous night. Playing for a consolation prize.

For the second straight Albert Schweitzer Tournament bronze medal game, the United States turned in a subpar performance and ended their two weeks of duty without a medal. This wasn’t quite the egg laid by the injury-stricken team of ’08, but there aren’t many positives to take away from the showing either. The U.S. fought back from an early deficit to hang close until the beginning of the second quarter, when Germany’s U-17 team–a squad preparing for the World Championships in Hamburg–built a bulge back that would never be truly be challenged for the rest of the afternoon.

This was the only time when Team USA played with the daylight beaming in through the windows, and the game felt like stumbling outside of the club in to tomorrow with a pounding hangover. My senses didn’t want it, and if I was only there to write about it, I can’t imagine what the kids felt like, having already known they came up short of their goal. Instead, I’ll pass along some words from others, a few video treats and some final talking points.

First, we should salute the champions, Australia, whose clinical deconstruction of Germany in the second half of the final was a sight to behold; team basketball at its best on the amateur level. Jackson Aldridge, Hugh Greenwood, Mitchell Creek and co. truly know one another as well as they know themselves.

Here is a video of them spitting gibberish before one of the tournament games. I asked Australian commenter Hursty to decipher it, and he came away mostly confused. I think one of the words is “chimichanga”; maybe they found some Mexican restaurant in Mannheim or Frankfurt before the game that we weren’t aware of.

And here’s Coach Krystkowiak, after the bronze medal loss:

“This is coming from the heart, so just hear me out…You guys, under the circumstances, did as well as we can do. And you understand the lesson about it being a fine line. Every game that we lost; the Australia game, tied up [late]. The reporter said, ‘What happened in that game?’ I said, ‘Nothing happened.’ It’s like a game of one-on-one. Kevin [Ware], if you and I are playing one-on-one, somebody has to win or there’s no reason to play. Now, if I happen to score, it doesn’t mean he did anything wrong. That’s why you have competition: somebody has to win. Last night, the reporters asked me the same thing: ‘what did you guys do wrong?’ I said, ‘give me a stat sheet. Okay, we both shot the ball horribly, from two and from three. Rebounds are identical, turnovers identical. Assists? Identical.’ Everything was identical right down the stat sheet. And it came down to one possession at the end of the game, but we come up on the short end…All those errors that we made are because we didn’t have time to work on things that we’re trying to work on on the fly. Not to mention a crowd [so loud] that you can’t hear what I’m saying, and even if you can sometimes, you don’t even know what it is that I’m saying because we haven’t been together often enough. We don’t get a medal to go home with, but this is a memory that’s never going to leave me. And I plan on following each one of you, 12 right on down the line. I spoke with Royce [Woolridge] about it last night; this is all part of growing up. And I hope each and every one of you–wherever you end up in school–succeeds. And I would love to stay in touch…I’m always in your corner and if you ever get down and out and you need another opinion about something, I’d love to hear from you. That would make my day. That’s why I got involved with this whole thing to begin with. It has been rewarding and [nobody] will never take away the fact that you put a United States uniform on. Ever. Nobody can take that away from you.”

The amazing thing to me is how much the kids actually did sponge up during this short period of time. And I have two major points to make because this is my second go-round spending my day-to-day around an NBA coach.

1) Watching Krystkowiak and Willard design the Xs and Os, it made much of what sportswriters/bloggers care about today seem trivial. Whether it’s the statistical revolution that has value, but is overly inflated because it’s the new big thing, or the passing off of knowledge of NBA salaries as something worth having expertise on when you’re not even paid to do so; it just feels hollow compared to watching an NBA coach teach a group of 16-year-olds a 40 series. Sure, you should reference how much a guy makes when evaluating whether or not he’s a good fit, but indexing the amount of money the eighth man on a non-contender earns, when it’s not even the team you root for or write about, seems pointless. You might as well while away your days trying to stump the Schwab. Because all of us who write about the game do it because we fell in the love with the game first…right? The exuberant kid in the backyard lofting jumpers until the sun went down or the silent killer taking it strong to the rack on the city’s most reputable slab of 94-foot concrete. This is where we come from, right? I returned stateside, resumed my reading and I was just…confused. Is falling love with the spectacle of the NBA that much different from falling in love with the actual game of basketball? Definitely something worth pondering.

Think of a classical music concert. Lovers of classical music can attend a concert and know the way something should sound, but only a pianist or an extremely learned and accomplished scholar of classical music can tell you when the guy at the keys missed a C sharp in the eighth measure coming out of a legato. It’s amazing how many people, in this analogy, would tell you Mozart was slow in legato when they can barely read the music. There are different layers to these things and they should be respected. If that means restraining from calling Jeff Van Gundy an idiot because you can’t step back and recognize that the network is paying him to appeal to the lesser-informed masses that don’t pretend to be experts, please, by all means, spare us.

2) The NCAA, high schools and THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA (FEDERAL) seriously need to rethink how they’re doing things. Every one of the kids on this team showed impressed me with their intelligence at some point or another during my week in Germany. They absorbed a lot more information than the ’08 kids got from current Grizzlies Coach Lionel Hollins, and they did so with such class and resolve, I couldn’t believe this was a team comprised more of juniors than seniors. Now, if any one of them—and I’m not banking on it, but you never know with high school athlete coddling these days—fails to qualify academically for an NCAA outfit, it will be an absolute injustice. Because basketball—and sport—is a type of intelligence. Team USA learned and implemented more on the court in two weeks than I did in three years of high school basketball. Yet, I’m the one with the Grade A education from the impressive college and their peers are often the ones who struggle gaining entrance in to the schools that covet them.

Why not give natural athletes the structure and resources they crave? Not an inconsistent potpourri of Oak Hills, Findlay Preps, underfunded public high schools and boosters, but a Bradenton in every single state. Heck, a nationwide high school tournament between every state’s 12 best players. New Jersey vs. New York at Madison Square Garden? I’d watch. I think twenty or thirty years down the line, the average person would be amazed at how much of an impact a Federal, job-providing initiative could have on this country and its citizens.

Because, for the second straight tournament, the AIS (Australian Institute of Sport) proved how valuable regimented structure, day in and day out, can be for amateur athletes. And if you think I’m just another random pundit spewing unnecessary morality, think about guys like Eddie Griffin, Lenny Cooke and Leon Smith for a second. Or you could just listen to George Washington. “Nothing can be more hurtful to the service, than the neglect of discipline; for that discipline, more than numbers, gives one army the superiority over another.”

You can only fall through the cracks if the road isn’t paved.

Now that you’re completely weighed down with all that philosophical heft that has very little to do with the actual tournament I spent a week covering—I know, I know, you’re welcome—here’s a video of team captain Royce Woolridge talking about the Albert Schweitzer experience at 6 a.m. in the Frankfurt airport. His unexpected guest is pretty funny, too.

Thanks to everyone involved for an experience that, incredibly, managed to exceed expectations.

Goodbyes are unnecessary because you’ll be watching many of these kids in the NCAA tournament in 1-2 year’s time and, if any NBA teams with coaching vacancies have any sense, Krystkowiak with a clipboard in his hands next season.

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-9/feed/5SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 8http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-8/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-8/#commentsFri, 21 May 2010 17:38:33 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=76548

When Farooq Mohammed drained a straightaway three to give the US its first lead (51-48) almost halfway through the fourth quarter, the drop in energy from a crowd that rabidly chanted “Deutschland” and made this our first official road game was palpable. Finally, maybe the tide was turning.

The undercurrent couldn’t have been any more against the US up to that point. The Germans were rested and hadn’t yet lost, emerging out of a ridiculously easy group and a quarterfinals pool that was a comparative cakewalk; they had just come off of a victory against their own U-17 team, and that team made the semis too.

As for the officiating, it was the same old story, only this time there was more of a focus on frequent flyer miles. If the refs granted the Americans up to yard and three steps, the Germans were given over a meter to go with four steps. We get it, everyone hates the Americans, and a tournament held on a US Army base gives referees a chance to exact political revenge. Even so, whistle chokers shouldn’t end up as the antagonists in a narrative with biased undertones that don’t belong in basketball. To wit, they call it a shit-eating grin because it looks like you’re eating shit.

Add on top of that the fact the US needed a late first-half spark from reserves Josh Henderson and Andrew White to get within two after playing one of their worst halves of basketball, and…maybe things were turning around.

Up 3, the US got a stop, but Damien Leonard missed a pull-up wing three on the break. The Germans came back and the US dug in on the defensive end, before giant Philipp Neumann sank a late shot-clock prayer from deep to tie the game. Another transition three put the Germans up for good. From potentially up six, to down three. In any game it’s a hell of a momentum swing; in a defensive slugfest that had played out the way it did, it was a death knell.

It’s surreal to watch a team try to claw back when you’re accustomed to seeing them play too comfortably while ahead. Every possession has this tangible extra weight to it; every shot that doesn’t fall feels like the end of the world. And, truth be told, when the team that’s had a rotating cast of leaders needed somebody to step up, nobody did.

The US had responded well to some of Coach Krystkowiak’s talking points from shootaround earlier in the morning. “We’re getting our ass handed to us on the glass,” he said. The US did a decent job on the boards, getting out-rebounded 47-44.

After the fact, a few costly turnovers, missed free throws and clanged open shots loomed large. With Kevin Ware battling foul trouble, neither Leonard nor Royce Woolridge could step in and provide the shot-making that was sorely missed.

Ryan Boatright did his thing late, getting to the rim and finishing as Team USA. teetered on the brink of gold-medal elimination, but it was too little too late.

We had an opportunity at the end, but the game was literally so intense, I can’t, for the life of me, remember what happened. I scribbled some doctor’s chicken scratch in my notebook on the bench, but I never got around to dissecting the last minute’s minutiae because I just wanted to let go of it.

Bummin’. To the nth degree.

Credit the German the defense, too. They had a whole tournament to prepare for this night and threw all sorts of junk at the US.

It’s hard to put in to words what exactly it feels like to fly across an ocean with the hopes of seeing one major thing happen, and then to fall short. Even as a writer. You spend time with the kids, watch them come together and try to pull off what at the outset seems almost unthinkable, taking down teams that have been together for years.

In the end, sitting right on the floor’s edge, it’s amazing how one play can turn the tide. One shot rims out and the game’s narrative and flow inexorably change. A six-point lead gives any blood-smelling squad the chance to go for the jugular. A three-point lead converted to a three-point deficit in a matter of seconds can render the promise of taking control nothing but a distant memory.

Which is what this tournament will be for these kids after the bronze medal game.

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-8/feed/2SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 7http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-7/
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For thirty-five minutes the United States played Australia even. The U.S. punched first. Australia punched back. Nip and tuck it went through a tight first half until an 11-0 run by the AUSSIEAUSSIEAUSSIES, as their kazoo-tooting fans would scream, gave them an 8-point halftime lead. The U.S. came out firing in the third quarter, boasting impressive resolve and a lightening-quick Ryan Boatright-Damian Leonard-Ryan Boatright sandwich of threes.

So why then, with U.S. down 13 in the waning seconds, was a simple inbounds play so important? Forget for a second that the U.S. had imploded, taking bad shots after misreading the zone and struggling to box out on free throws. Yeah, a tie game became wholly lopsided in a matter of minutes. But an inbounds play with two seconds to go after Coach Krystkowiak, counter to all basketball logic, implored the team not to foul to stop the clock?

Welcome to the Albert Schweitzer International Basketball Tournament…

Due to permutations and math that’s far too complex for me, the U.S. needed to lose by less than 14 to pass out of the elite eight pool into the single elimination final four. Of course, this wasn’t relayed to the kids beforehand. The coaches and I knew but, as Krystkowiak rightly pointed out afterward, it would have been strange to worry the team with these details. Especially considering they had just beaten Spain, who had beaten Australia in group play. The objective and focus was to win.

But amazingly, after a totally unnecessary bucket that seemed to come out of spite–bad karma for a potential Gold Medal rematch if you believe in such things–that’s what it came down to: an inbounds pass.

Thankfully, the Australians held off and the clock expired…otherwise a Sergeant Major probably would have had a dingo eat one of their baby mommas. And the dingo would have come with a note that said, “Tell ‘em Paul Hogan sent ya.”

That’s right, I just went there. I’m swimming in stereotypes and bathing in cultural backwash. It’s 3AM (4/8/10) and I can’t sleep, in part because we lost. Shit happens. So does caffeine. Hell of a combination.

Other things you should know:

–Ryan Boatright has invariably become the starter and the finisher for the offense. When guys are tentative to start, the onus falls on the undersized Chicago point guard to take things into his own hands. The same thing often happens late in the game. This reality led me to scribble “Bailout Boatright” in my notebook. Heck of an indie rock band name.

–Australian Captain Hugh Greenwood looks like a blond werewolf. His eyebrows are the closest thing to the Autobahn I’ve seen yet. As for his game? Unselfish. He doesn’t need to make shots to have an overarching effect on the game. 10-11-6 for HG, but it felt more important than that. He orchestrated despite not being a point guard. When he’s leading Saint Mary’s deep into the 2012 NCAA Tournament, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

–Both teams cooled down considerably in the second half, but the Aussies knocked down 12-14 free throws while the Americans continued at below a 60% clip for the game. There’s a lot of your difference right there.

–Both Kevin Ware and Royce Woolridge, perhaps neither fully healthy, struggled a bit in this game. Those are the guys whose exploits, on both ends, can make the Americans golden. When they’re clicking on offense, everything opens up around them. When they’re manning up on D, the perimeter doesn’t need to collapse into the middle and the middle doesn’t need to force rushed, and late, close-outs.

–Andrew White saw even more time. He combined with Damien Leonard to be temporarily lethal on the offense end, even though the two–who had to figure who was playing the stretch 4–were obviously feeling one another out on the floor in a very “high school” sense. Who’s your man? Oh, you got him. You want me here, or do you wanna go here? Who’s taking the ball out?

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-7/feed/3SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 6http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-6/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-6/#commentsWed, 19 May 2010 17:55:06 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=76134

“It’s a great day to be an American–a Polish American,” Coach Krystkowiak muses at the end of practice, as Team USA comes together in the center of the dingy alternate gymnasium where “no dunking” signs are taped on to the backboards.

His words and the schedule conjure up memories of Team USA’s epic buzzer-beating victory over Spain in the quarters two years ago, one of the best basketball games–on any level–that I’ve ever witnessed live. After Alberto Jodar bricked two free throws with Spain up 1, Florida’s Erving Walker coasted on the Spaniards, leaving Kansas’ Travis Releford open and with nothing to complain about, but only because the shot went down.

This experience fresh in mind, it was strange knowing that Spain had cruised out of the first stage, save a tough win against Australia, and didn’t believe the Americans were very good–”ego-heavy shooters” is what our chaperon Martin relayed to the coaches and I.

It’s starts awfully, an open layup for Espana straight off the opening tip, but the pace is fast and the Americans–after some careless play with the ball and too much one-on-one stuff had them down 9-5–get back in gear, drawing fouls and putting Spain in the bonus early.

Spain is playing more cohesively (to be expected, they’ve been together for a year and a half) but Captain America, Royce Woolridge, is salvaging what remaining defensive dignity the Americans have with good active hands, solid positioning and well-timed close-outs. That’s right, it’s Day 5 and we’re focusing on close-outs. 21-19, Spain after one.

The U.S. comes out gangbusters in the second frame, outscoring the flopping tapas 14-4 in the first five minutes. If Ryan Boatright is steering the offensive ship, then Damien Leonard is his first mate for this extended sequence. Leonard’s full arsenal is on display: slithery forays to the tin, midrange pull-ups, and, of course, threes. While the kid has plenty to work on, he’s an absolute sniper from long range…think a pre-pubescent Allan Houston with a 36-inch vertical. 19 points in 19 minutes for DL, on 8-14 from the floor. Could have been more without the 4 silly fouls.

The second quarter, and first half in general, also sees the U.S. struggle to rotate while chasing shooters on the perimeter, leading to a lot of layups that Spain converts a split second before the American big can fully recover back to the challenge the drive. That said, Marshall Plumlee did a good job holding down the fort down low, with Michael Chandler providing a little lift as well.

The last minute before the half also saw the debut of Andrew White, one of the rotation’s odd men out. White is immediately part of the action, moving the ball up the floor in transition and dumping it into Plumlee who gets fouled. White comments on the bench that the experience has been great for him; going from being the man on his high school team to learning by watching. Here’s to hoping it sets him ahead in the future.

The third quarter sees the Americans give their five-point lead back in just under 3 minutes. By the time Spain has taken the lead, thanks to poor transition defense and shot selection, Coach Krystkowiak turns beet red during a timeout, showing real anger for the first time all tournament.

The kids get the message–on offense at least–and Kevin Ware comes alive, penetrating for buckets and recovering on defense for a block of a layup in transition.

Spain’s Jaime Fernandez catches fire, but the Americans weather the Spanish storm. Royce Woolridge buries two deep threes and the pendulum swings back to the Americans. This time, the squad that seems allergic to building a double-digit lead–anything up to 9 is kosher–maintains the edge. More Boatright, Leonard and Woolridge’s second back-breaking buzzer-beating three (the first a seemingly impossible step-back fadeaway) push it to 79-70. Boatright even scores four points on a potential five-point play, which is some straight reverse karma shit.

The Americans run clock and ram a 1/5 pick-and-roll down Spain’s throats near the end, Plumlee looking robotic with his wide base on screens and Boatright playing the role of speedy Chicago point guard that jackknifes into the lane all too well. The set creates good spacing and wears Spain down.

When Ware slices baseline for an uncontested two-handed throw down, it’s over, another victory for the team growing by the day, though you wouldn’t have known it if you wandered into the locker room afterward. Coach Krystkowiak harps on the inconsistent defensive effort; “poor shell defense” as he puts it. The team also didn’t play smart, according to their coach, but they did play together and hard, and it’s always a goal to do two of those three things.

“It was a lot of fun, cranking it up,” Krystkowiak notes in a moment of levity, although it should be noted that moments of levity were all the rage throughout the day; coach calling one of his bigs “Mister Happy Pants” during the film session and referring to other players–who dug this humor–simply as “dog.”

The kids probably won’t be able to crank it up quite like this against Australia tomorrow. The Aussies play like a rugby team. A win or a loss by a small margin will place Team U.S.A. out of the quarterfinal pool and into the single-elimination semifinals.

We can only hope. For now, at least, it’s great to be an American–a Polish American, an American cadet, an American journalist/writer…

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-6/feed/0SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 5http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-5/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-5/#commentsTue, 18 May 2010 18:24:13 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=76112

You hop on the bus and head into Heidelberg, which is so much more beautiful than you thought it would be. A river flanked with old mansions separates high grassy, rolling hills from the center of town. Narrow European streets and local flavor meet imported capitalism. Of course.

You head over to the army base in Heidelberg, where you’re greeted by Robert B. Brown, Major General slash Chief-Of-Staff for the U.S. Army in Europe. He’s also the Deputy Commanding General of the U.S. Army NATO. He basically runs Europe. As if that’s not enough, he played ball for Mike Krzyzewski at West Point before Coach K headed to Duke.

Brown talks about speaking to the ’08 Olympic team back in ’06 and he shows a video that features a speech he gave to the preliminary squad about commitment to teammates, using the armed forces as a metaphor. When the film moves on to portray Scott Smiley, who lost both of his eyes while engaging a suicide bomber in combat early enough to prevent a catastrophic explosionwithin range of thirty fellow officers, you remember that you watched this story on ESPN. For those that didn’t: Smiley and his wife got to attend a Team USA scrimmage and sit courtside while Dwyane Wade and Gilbert Arenas narrated what was going on through a headset. You head out of the room thankful that you’ll probably never take shrapnel to the face.

You eat a nice catered Chinese lunch, which is absolutely gourmet in comparison to the stuff you get back on the Mannheim base, during which Coach Krystkowiak thanks Brown for imparting an important message to the team.

Brown gives you a tour of the building, including his office, highlighted by a New York Times article from his playing days at West Point. The major item of interest, however, is Hitler’s globe, which sits as a centerpiece in the hallway. Everyone takes pictures of it, and you take a picture of North America while wondering what it would be like if German was the world’s most popular language.

You leave the Army campus and go into town to meet with the Mayor of Heidelberg in a conference room with microphones and a gigantic wooden table. When you push your microphone button on prior to the Mayor’s arrival, Coach urges you not to leave it on, lest you have a Biden moment. Truth be told, you kind of want the Biden moment; that win over Argentina last night was a “big fucking deal.”

You head into Heidelberg and window shop for a while. Chris Manhertz takes a while buying trinkets for his big family. A British girl comes up and peppers you, Andre White and Jamal Tuck with questions about the tournament. You eventually split off with Damien Leonard and Coach Holliday, talking about everything from Europe and history to D’s limitless college options. Some high school kids from Ridgewood, New Jersey come up and ask more questions. Ryan Boatright jokingly tells the kid in the Kentucky sweatshirt that he’s going there. It’s plausible, but not probable, and gullible kid buys it. Gawky, confused white boys. What would the world do without them?

You arrive in the center square and join Coach Krystkowiak, Coach Williams, Coach Willard and the chaperon, Martin Hopfner, as they polish off some beer in the wonderfully bright sun. You realize you missed a chance to drink hefeweizen with Coach Krystkowiak so you’re a little bit disappointed, but you get over it because today is just one of those good days that remind how chill and wonderful life can be.

On the ride back to Mannheim, Coach Willard talks about being in Vegas for the opening of a Hooters with Bob Huggins and Gene Simmons. Apparently, they called it “Hugs and Kisses.” Sounds like a lot of boobs and screaming, you think.

Back on the base, you wander over with most of the guys through the gated Army neighborhood, past a few backyards and over to a small area with a lowered hoop. The hoop stands about five feet tall which makes 7-footers Marshall Plumlee and Josh Henderson look even more gigantic than they are. A few shots go up and then the youngsters, Zahn and Casey, raise the rim.

Eventually, most of the crew decides to return to Sgt. Major Delgado’s house, but you hang back with Plumlee, Henderson and the rest of the kids. Plumlee helps them dunk and soon the kids, Plumlee and Henderson form a line and start throwing the ball off the backboard to one another like mascots in a halftime show.

It’s after about twenty minutes of this clowning around that the group realizes there’s an actual half court about thirty feet away. You split up into teams. You’re with Plumlee, Zahn and Casey. Henderson is with Kobe and a few others. You do your best to simultaneously jack Plumlee’s stats—snaring all nearby rebounds and doling out potential assists to the kids in the best position to score—while maintaining the integrity of a game that revolves around making dreams come true for these little lads.

Plumlee, in particular, is amazing with the kids, so it’s pretty easy to just go along. His ability to entertain and enter their worlds reminds you of yourself—the oldest first cousin on both sides of your family. Plumlee’s frenetic energy seemingly knows no bounds and he’s exhorting his little teammates at every stop, encouraging them to finish intricately-described dunks even though that’s impossible; the hoop is ten feet and the kids four-foot-something.

You’re running a play called Red Power Ranger and defending Henderson’s “Chicken Nugget” formation. Little Kobe (of course) makes a few shots and immediately starts talking trash, not in the least bit intimidated by Plums. Eventually, our ball movement and the dinner bell prove too much for Henderson’s crew.

On our way back Henderson tells the kids that he’s going to Vanderbilt, which is in Nashville. The kids glow and talk about how Plumlee and Henderson will be in the NBA in a few years. A G.I. in a Tennessee sweatshirt says hello, and you remind him that he’ll be rooting on Kevin Ware in a little over a year. He knows already, which serves as a simple reminder that there’s pretty much nobody on this base that isn’t impacted by this team.

You line up outside Kim’s kitchen and head in. You throw some steak, shrimp salad, mac and cheese, corn and beans on to a plate and chow down. Mike Chandler begins busting on Manhertz because his highlight video has a clip of him pulling up and drilling a three. Chandler goes to painstaking detail to elucidate why exactly it’s hilarious, and we all laugh, because it is funny; Manhertz hasn’t taken a shot outside of seven feet all tournament long. The great thing about this is that Chris can laugh at it–when teammates like each other, especially young ones, they can rank on one another seamlessly without feelings getting hurt. (For the record, the next day Manhertz will repeatedly say “that’s why you’re a sportswriter” while out-shooting you in practice.)

It’s about this time when an intense dodgeball game breaks out. Boatright hides behind Manhertz, because, fuck, nobody’s messing with Manhertz; he’s “on that strong shit.” Manhertz throwing a rubber dodgeball just isn’t fair, like Shaq toying with a women’s basketball. When dodgeball ends, Chandler does “The Jerk” and it’s getting funny, his teammates clowning him for putting pictures on Facebook that show him doing The Worm. Eventually, Royce Woolridge is called over and he does “The Jerk,” and shit, now it’s just fucking uproarious because it seems like Royce could dance backup for Rihanna. Then Kobe and Zahn, neither of them teenagers yet, start dancing “The Jerk” and…the layers of comedy are just piling up.

You’re laughing so hard now it almost begins to hurt, but not as much the guys surrounding you, because they’re laughing so hard it actually does hurt.

It’s getting cold out as night falls, so Assistant Coach Willis Holliday says it’s time to head back to the bus.

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-5/feed/2SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 4http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-as-americans-vol-4/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-as-americans-vol-4/#commentsMon, 17 May 2010 00:31:11 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=75853

Final Pool Play Game Against Argentina; Messing With Tobacco Road; Fruit Loops

“It couldn’t have gone much worse,” Coach Krystkowiak repeats twice during the locker room at halftime. Victims of a five-point play call (yep, you read that right; we didn’t think those existed either) and poor shooting from the floor (29%), the Americans had watched a high-single digit lead evaporate in the waning moments of the half.

Knotted at 25-apiece, the fear of being eliminated from pool play, which would make these kids spend their final three days in Deutschland competing for 9th place, felt all too real. The disturbing pattern of taking an early lead, only to give it back and start again from absolute zero at some point later in the game, was rearing its drama-building head.

The five-point play—a three-pointer followed by two shots from an off-the-ball foul—had Krystkowiak threatening to protest the game, and rightly so. There is no such thing as a five-point play in basketball, just as there’s no three-point conversion in football following a touchdown. Yay, touchdown! Let’s kick a field goal!

Even scarier, Argentina had shot just 24% in the half. If they actually connected on a few open looks, things would be even worse. Stagger action to free up shooters and cross-screens that their bigs used to free one another up were working far too well; the young Argentines just couldn’t hit Diego Maradona’s frumpish backside with a heat-seeking missile.

Despite the seemingly ominous momentum swing looming, it wasn’t to be for Argentina, who would finish at the bottom of this group of death. Ryan Boatright led a strong early charge in the third quarter, finding Chris Manhertz rolling to the rim, before a three-point play and another trip to the line helped build the lead back. The Americans took a 48-41 advantage into the fourth quarter.

Kevin Ware had a nice final frame sequence, following up his own miss, one of a few Americans to do so, before a rim-rattling dunk got the cadets out of their seats. Ware is headed to Tennessee and when he makes plays like this you can almost see Bruce Pearl’s base tan dancing jubilantly. (Note: This was Team America’s “dunkiest” performance of the tournament: Ware also had a nasty alley-oop finish earlier in the game and Marshall Plumlee’s perfectly-timed, first-half follow-up flush earned raucous applause.)

While Team USA didn’t quite step on Argentina’s throat—the South Americans specialized in chipping orange paint on a bevy of second chance opportunities in the fourth quarter—the final outcome was never really in doubt after Royce Woolridge drilled a corner three to make it 60-47 with three minutes to go.

It’s also worth mentioning that when a ridiculous call is made the ball is not lying. It’s becoming almost surreal how many bricked free throws follow blown calls.

Boatright led the Americans with 21 and 3 assists. Ware had 14 and 6 rebounds.

Final: U.S.A. 61 Argentina 53

From the day:

–Chris Manhertz decided that I look like Harry Potter. I think this is because I’m white and sometimes wear glasses. Come on, Manhertz…Malibu’s Most Wanted. Stick to the script, son. The Bronx is better than that!

–As we were leaving lunch, Ryan Boatright was gobbling up some Fruit Loops. A green one missed his mouth and dropped to the ground. I called shenanigans, noting the Fruit Loops turnover. “Yeah, but all the ones I eat are assists,” he declared.

Touche. So that’s like a 40:1 assists to Fruit Loops turnover ratio.

Let’s just say we’re happy that this kid’s growing game and sharp wit won’t be wasted by Tim Floyd.

–I was towards the end of the lunch line with Marshall Plumlee. When the two of us approached the silverware area, there was only a solitary fork remaining.

I yanked it.

“I’ll trade you this fork for a verbal commitment to UNC,” I chirped.

Plumlee—who would watch his brothers win a national championship for Duke later that night—did not punch me in the face, though, if we’re being honest, he would have been totally within his right.

–Coach Willis Holliday and some other guys on the team convinced me at lunch that Tyler Perry is not a government conspirator and much of his programming has value. It seems I just can’t relate to it. I guess you learn something new every day.

Before Game 4 this past Monday, a reporter asked Jameer Nelson if all of this–the perfect postseason record, the blowouts of Atlanta and Charlotte–would be possible without a superstar on the team. Meer’s response? “Is it possible without Dwight?!? No. None of this would be possible without Dwight,” laughed Nelson. With that in mind, here’s a feature from SLAM 105 that focused on a Dwight Howard who was just beginning to climb the ladder of excellence.–Ed.

by Jake Appleman

Shirtless, shoeless Dwight Howard trots through the bowels of the TD Banknorth Garden, leaving a horde of screaming Bostonians in his wake. He makes a quick left and walks down the main corridor.

“Did you give those away?” someone asks out loud, referring to Howard’s lack of jersey and kicks.

“Yessir,” Howard responds in stride, his typical polite self.

After Dwight turns left into the visitors’ locker room, the unknown guy turns to somebody else and offers up one of the generic compliments that typically define upstanding young men like Howard, something along the lines of, “He’s such a good kid!”

Urbandictionary.com—admittedly not exactly the web’s home for “good kids”—defines the most acceptable use of the word beasting as “The act of beasting; to act in a beast-like manner; to act aggressively.” While the word has many different connotations, when discussing aggressive athletes its primary meaning is often overused. Hella overused.

I’m sorry, but Earl Boykins, regardless of how well he plays, cannot “beast.” That would be like describing a dangerous situation to Charlie Villanueva as “hairy.” It just doesn’t work. Point being, the new-school vernacular, as it relates to sports, never struck the right chord with me…until I saw Dwight Howard play. And then it clicked. Howard, who will finally be able to legally buy a brew right around the time this issue goes to press, gobbles up rebounds like supermodels vomit: by combining relentless, unparalleled skill with the perfect body type. More to the point, survival under the boards is Darwinian, and Dwight Howard is the fittest, leading the League with 14.1 boards per through the first 11 games of the season.

For added perspective, let’s look at how Howard immediately goes to work on this November night. On Orlando’s first possession, Paul Pierce swipes the ball away from DH. Instead of sulking, Howard immediately atones by blocking Kendrick Perkins’ shot at the other end. Seconds later, Ryan Gomes picks up his first foul because he can’t contain Howard on a box-out. Another 30 ticks later and Howard grabs his first defensive board of the night. He whips an outlet pass and the Magic break quickly, as Jameer Nelson finds Grant Hill for an and-one. Gomes, an emerging key for this young Celtics team, picks up his second foul with 10:30 left in the first quarter.

A minute later, Perkins bricks the second of two free throws and the man-child grabs the board. The Magic quickly head the other way, and Nelson finds Howard for an uncontested two-handed flush. At the 8:37 mark, Dwight drives on Gomes’ replacement, Brian Scalabrine, who has no choice but to foul him. On Boston’s next possession, Howard swats a Pierce layup. Perkins grabs the blocked shot and is fouled by Tony Battie, but KP misses both FTs and Dwight grabs another board. Two possessions go by, and Scalabrine picks up his second foul trying to contain Howard, who runs the floor like a guard, leaving Scalabrine no choice. Again.

It’s apropos that Scalabrine exits after struggling against the young behemoth. It was only an hour earlier when the chatty redhead said, “He has a knack for making the big plays. He just goes up and gets a rebound, and he’s two feet above the rim, way up there. Once he gets to the point where he makes those plays—the faceup Tim Duncan jumper—the whole League is gonna be scared of him.”

Friendly giant that he is, Howard admits that he didn’t mean to foul two guys out in the time it takes most people to boil water. “Oh no, it just happened,” he says innocently. “I wasn’t really thinking about it. I knew if I had a smaller guy like Scalabrine or Gomes to go right away. I mean, I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

Four minutes of actual game time have passed. Thanks to Al Jefferson’s appendectomy, the Celtics are down to their fourth option, Leon Powe, who makes his NBA debut and immediately asserts his will on the game. (Dwight is busy sticking the massive Perkins, while Darko Milicic struggles with Powe.) Interestingly, Leon might never have seen action if DH wasn’t such an impossible cover. After the game, I ask Dwight if Powe, the Boston media’s “silver lining” in his debut, should send him a fruit basket.

“Oh, shhh…man,” Howard counters, almost as if it was not appropriate to make light of the situation. Typical Dwight Howard. He’s such a good kid. His gargantuan presence inadvertently helps a rookie get his career off to a great start, and he chooses to praise the rook. “He played great. We didn’t really discuss him much. Next time we’ll look out for him.”

While Powe will have to scrap for everything he gets in the League, Howard is well on his way to being a perennial superstar. And his teammates are ecstatic to be a part of his blindingly bright future. “He’s one of the best young players in the League, so it’s always fun,” Keyon Dooling notes. “We can see improvement in his game from last year to this year. Every night and every day in practice he does something spectacular.”

Battie, Howard’s partner under the boards, takes it a step further. “He’s an asshole,” Battie jokes, before arriving at his real point. “His game is mature. He should be an All-Star this year, one of the elite big men. When you run down the list: Shaq, Duncan, maybe Yao; you’ve gotta throw Dwight in there with those guys.”

Howard acknowledges that the feeling is mutual. When asked what the biggest difference is between this year and last year, he extols the virtues of his teammates and alludes to the camaraderie they’ve been able to develop by sticking together. “That’s the best thing that can happen for me—that we’ve got the same nucleus of guys still here,” he says matter-of-factly.

Howard finishes his night in Boston with a manly 17 and 15—right around his averages for the first month of the season—en route to an impressive W, but what’s also striking is how his teammates perform around him. Grant Hill (knock on wood) is currently turning back the clock, and Jameer Nelson does a fantastic job of utilizing Howard’s presence. In Boston, Howard floats around the court like Nelson’s screen and roll shadow. “When I set a pick for him, sometimes the big helps and that leaves me wide open,” Howard says. “And a lotta people don’t wanna see me dunking, so they stay with me and leave him—and he’s going to hit that shot.” Nelson stars in the victory, finishing with 24 and 7, shooting 11 of 17 from the floor.

With such an effective group around him, Howard is able to concentrate on his greatest strength: his rebounding. “I just try and focus on wherever the balls are coming off and try to get there,” he says. Looking for a bit more detail, we ask Orlando coach Brian Hill to expound. “Obviously, his greatest asset for us is his ability to rebound the basketball,” Hill says. “He’s learning how to become more of a factor now, changing and blocking shots inside. He’s just getting better and better with the experience. He’s come a long way.”

Marked improvement aside, there’s still much work to be done. Backup guard Travis Diener adds some good perspective: “When teams double team him, he’s got to continue to get better at passing out of a double team, and even scoring sometimes through a double team. Teams are going to come after him now…He’s gotta find a way to get through that, pass the ball, then re-post, and get the ball back and score that way.”

Howard also recognizes that he needs to expand his offensive game in order to keep improving. “Posting up is one of my strengths, but I need to keep working on my jump shot and develop more confidence in it where I can shoot more than one a game. I think by doing that, that’ll just open up the floor.”

Not only is Howard cognizant of his own limitations and how he must improve, he’s smart enough to understand that he must stay true to his team’s needs. “One thing that Coach Hill talked to me a lot about is that if I’m out shooting jump shots, who’s going to rebound? Who’s going to be down low?’’ Howard asks. “We have the guys to shoot jump shots. He says, ‘If you’re down in the paint dominating, that’s what we need, that’s what’s going to help us win.’”

And winning is important for the Orlando Magic this year. They sprinted out to a 7-4 start, buoyed by the stellar play of Howard, Hill and Nelson, the veteran leadership of Battie and Hedo Turkoglu, and a very deep bench (Keyon Dooling, Carlos Arroyo,Keith Bogans, the uber-athletic Trevor Ariza, Travis Diener and a (finally) fully free Darko Milicic). Anything less than a trip to the postseason will be seen as a major disappointment in O-town.

Much has been made of Howard’s commitment to his religion, but piety doesn’t get in the way of a versatile, engaging personality. He walks around with a bright, endearing smile and entertains reporters with Borat impersonations (“In my country they go crazy for you,” Howard imitates, pointing at a female reporter. Then, looking at an out-of-shape beat writer, “but not so much for you.”)

And the praise continues to flow like the constant movement in the Magic’s offense when Howard’s solitary presence roams the paint.

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/beauty-of-the-beast/feed/7SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americans Vol. 3http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-3/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-3/#commentsThu, 13 May 2010 17:34:42 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=75526

With a little over a minute to play and the U.S. up a few on France, Kevin Ware penetrates right wing and banks in a tough runner. The contact is obvious and the whistle is blown. Raw athleticism and clinical finishing—with or without windex—have been Ware’s calling card in the first two pool games. The and-one makes it a two-possession game and puts the U.S. in cruise control the rest of the way against arguably their stiffest competition in the entire tournament.

Except the foul is called on Ware.

A charge.

No f—ing way.

Not this again.

Visions of a bruising Turkish big man setting a moving screen so blatant that ’08 U.S. Coach, and 2010 NBA C.O.Y. candidate, Lionel Hollins lightly kicks a chair come back like a cheap movie flashback. And the memory from earlier in the half of a ref blowing a whistle that went our way, and then smiling so broadly it was like he farted, is all too fresh in mind.

This is Ware’s fifth foul, so he’s out of the game, joining Royce Woolridge on the pine. Woolridge’s 13 third-quarter points came on an impressive array of step-backs, short spinning fades, threes off of ball movement and strong takes to the rim. Now, both of Team U.S.A.’s starting wings, the glue guys that can also create for themselves, are left to watch the climax and wonder.

When a French kid—we’ll call him Zinedine Zidane Thierry Henry Tony Parker—wets a long three to give Les Blues one of their few leads all night, the U.S. has one last opportunity to win it.

One last opportunity with three guys under 6”3 out there…kind of daunting for a perimeter-oriented team.

Spurred on by Coach K’s earlier joke that Forrest Gump had an Adidas deal, we’ll say that Team USA, in ’08 and ’10, is as Team U.S.A. does—and what Team U.S.A. does is dribble penetration from its point guard late in the game.

Two years ago it was Florida’s Erving Walker. This year it’s Ryan Boatright.

Boat get the ball on the left wing, elbow extended.

Tick, tick, tick…

Slices in the lane.

Tick, tick…

He goes up.

Tick…

There’s some contact, but not enough for a foul. And really…who would have expected it?

Tick, tick…

The ball is on the rim, scoping the cylinder out like a college scholarship offer.

Tick.

The ball rolls off the other side of the iron.

Out of bounds off of France. 1.1 remaining.

Coach Krystkowiak draws up a play, but the execution isn’t perfect and Dillon Wadsack’s corner three is swatted emphatically into the crowd as time expires.

If only Obama hadn’t declined Nicolas Sarkozy’s invitation to lunch, maybe none of this would have happened.

Final: France 67 U.S.A. 66

Here’s my favorite part of Krystkowiak’s pregame speech:

“Most guys aren’t dialed in like you guys, to taking shots with a hand in their face…For all the screening action, it’s all shell. It’s all putting your hard hat on and getting ready to be physical and guarding him. Number 10, last night had 31 points in 28 minutes. He can play. And he looks like Kramer on Seinfeld…he doesn’t look like he can play, but he can go right or left, he runs, jump fades, he gets to the line, all kinds of stuff. Their point guard didn’t miss a shot yesterday, either. He was 7-7, number 5. He’s a little bigger. Get ready if they run a little UCLA cut, they’ll run him down to the block. They might try and post him. We need ball pressure.”

Guarantee that’s the first time Cosmo Kramer has been mentioned in the same speech as UCLA cuts and ball pressure, unless of course Bill Walton spent a good chunk of the 90′s shrooming before NBC’s Thursday night lineup.

From the notebook:

–It’s amazing how much shooting the ball from distance well can help your cause on this level. Damien Leonard struggled from beyond the arc 3-13—the U.S. was 6-24 overall—and that was the biggest element in the loss. The team took care of the ball, improved on offense and defense and continued to come together. Including Woolridge’s 9-14 (which includes a missed heave at the end of a quarter) the team was 24-67 overall.

Afterwards, Krystkowiak talks a lot about how shots falling can make you look like a genius even if very little else changes, and it’s really true: shooting the ball well is like being the girl that covers up flaws with the right makeup and clothes. And let’s be honest, you don’t want to see models on the catwalk without blush on…

–I took a few action shots from the game and the two that stuck were, amazingly, the two most unique plays of the first half: The first is the follow-through on a Ryan Boatright four-point play and the second is a jumper that France’s Evan Turnier (Kramer from Seinfeld) hit, during which Royce Woolridge had his lip busted open fighting through a high screen. You can see Royce’s (#9) reaction to taking the hit pretty well.

Here they are:

Three fun notes from the evening after the game:

–We had pizza at the bowling alley on the base and the guys signed autographs for the young army brats. I was sitting with the team per usual and the kids were too young to realize I wasn’t on the team, so I reluctantly signed some autographs, too. I tried to explain to them that I didn’t play for the team, but they still insisted. Kids are persuasive.

–One of Team USA’s biggest supporters throughout the tournament was Sgt. Major Delgado, a really nice guy and natural leader. Sgt. Major Delgado has a son named Kobe. He and his wife, Kim, explained that they wanted a name that started with K, and he was a Kobe fan, so naturally it made sense.

“Before the charges,” Kim added.

The room laughed.

–I spent the first few days of the tournament sharing the Presidential Suite with Coach Krystkowiak. More on this (probably) later on this series. After the France game, Coach turned the women’s Final Four on briefly after going over the Argentina-Croatia film. He made a nice comment about how great it was to see women playing impressive, fundamental basketball.

I referenced playing on the girl’s scout team my senior year at Kenyon and the fact that the girls are a lot more athletic in person than you can glean from just watching them on TV. Then we had this exchange.

LK: “So watching you would just be like watching a girl?”

JA: “I mean…not really. I’m more athletic, but you’d still see them making the nice basketball plays.”

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans-vol-3/feed/2SLAMonlineHow To Make It As Americanshttp://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans/
http://www.slamonline.com/blogs/absence/how-to-make-it-as-americans/#commentsTue, 11 May 2010 16:23:15 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=75144

In 2008, I had the wonderful opportunity to spend five days in Germany shadowing Team USA at the Albert Schweitzer Tournament, which is basketball’s second biggest high school international competition, after the World Championships. Part of what makes the AST so unique is that it’s held on the U.S. Army Base in Mannheim. (You can read more about my experience two years ago here.) Anyway, last month, for a week (April 3-10) I had the same opportunity. If my first time covering the AST was the best journalistic experience of my life…well, the second time topped it. You can’t replicate the unique adrenaline that flows when you do something special for the first time, but often the sequel (The Godfather II, The Empire Strikes Back, The 2001 Lakers) is even better; familiarity and gained wisdom can make it easier to step back and a appreciate a great time.

Before getting into the daily diary of my time in Germany, I’d like to introduce you to Team USA. After all, if I can’t paint mini-portraits of these kids after spending 7-8 days with them, I wasn’t doing my job.

Without further ado, here’s team USA…

Ryan Boatright
Year: Junior
Position: PG
Hometown: Aurora, IL
College: Undecided; Boatright de-committed from USC after the Tim Floyd fiasco. He had committed to USC in eighth grade.
Team-given lookalike: Tiger Woods
Team-given lookalike rating: 3 of 10. Boatright is nice kid with some nice dreams; Tiger Woods is an orange pornstar-slaying herb that just happens to be a golf prodigy. Boatright is a real person; Tiger is manufactured by Nike.
Bio: Charismatic on and off the court, Boatright finished second in the tournament in scoring at 19.6 ppg. Boat did much of his damage on fearless forays to the rim and bailout threes. He has a nice knack for the “oh snap, my team needs me to score right now or we’ll be in trouble” bucket. With the right coaching, the sky is the limit for Boat at a big-time program.
Quirk: Due to issues breathing out of his nose, Boat’s the only kid we’ve met who can go for 25 and 5 while consistently looking like he’s about to faint.

Michael Chandler
Year: Junior
Position: C
Hometown: Indianapolis, IN
College: Louisville
Team-given lookalike: The Will Smith/DeMarcus Cousins hybrid.
Team-given lookalike rating: 8 of 10. MC Chan, as we dubbed him, is a promising young big man and he has a Fresh Prince-esque sense of humor, so it fits.
Bio: Chandler, like many developing bigs, is a work in progress. He has a good touch around the rim and when he’s active, he’s most definitely an asset. He’ll have another year of work in high school and up to four years with Rick Pitino to reach his potential. We’ll be rooting for him.
Quirk: A pretty remarkable story teller.

Joshua Henderson
Year: Senior
Position: PF/C
Hometown: Roanoke, VA
College: Vanderbilt
Team-given lookalike: Shawn Bradley
Team-given lookalike rating: 1 of 10. Aside from being white and tall, Henderson is nothing like Shawn Bradley. The team was really lazy when coming up with that one. Epic fail.
Bio: Henderson led JJ Redick’s former high school, Cave Spring, to back-to-back state titles ’09 and ‘10. A mobile big with a nice touch, Henderson was one of the odd men out in the U.S. rotation due to the need for a perimeter-based attack. Don’t let that fool you; with AJ Ogilvy possibly heading to the NBA, Henderson might just be thrown right into the SEC fire next year.
Quirk: Henderson’s self-deprecating sense of humor highlighted an intelligence that will serve him well on the next level. Too many kids get down on themselves and don’t know to get up; Josh was ready to contribute when he was called upon in the medal rounds. That and a stuffed monkey that helped him draw a few charges are what we’ll most remember.

Damien Leonard
Year: Junior
Position: SF
Hometown: Greenville, SC
College: Undecided
Team-given lookalike: TI
Team-given lookalike rating: 9 of 10. Jay-Z notes on “A Star Is Born” that TI “literally decided to shoot up the charts.” If there’s a more appropriate lyric out there to describe Dame’s game, we haven’t found it.
Bio: Leonard boasts near limitless range and athleticism and, at 6-5, he’s probably still be growing. A good kid who will be able to go pretty much any school he wants, we hope he chooses the place that helps him develop into the best player he can be—the coach who demands 1,000 jumpers a day and copious amounts of game film study. He led the tournament in threes made and attempted.
Quirk: The team’s resident poet laureate.

Chris Manhertz
Year: Senior
Position: PF
Hometown: The Bronx, NY
College: Canisius
Team-given lookalikes: Dwight Howard, 50 Cent, Venom from Spiderman
Team-given lookalikes rating: N/A. Manhertz has too many nicknames and it’s far too complicated to figure out which one fits. Not even he knows. Hell, we moved on to awful puns after the first day (“Momma, there goes that Manhertz,” “The Oak-Manhertz”, “That’s Not You’re Mother, That’s A Manhertz”).
Bio: Manhertz finished third in the tournament in rebounding and plays like his name suggests: ruggedly and all out. We think he’ll do very well at Canisius. Manhertz battled foul trouble at various points in the tournament, but it wasn’t for a lack of knocking opponents on their asses.
Quirk: Defends NYC’s own Papoose against the merciless haters.

Farooq Muhammad (Davis)
Year: Senior
Position: PG
Hometown: Indianapolis, IN
College: Lincoln Memorial (TN)
Team-given lookalike: Eric Bledsoe.
Team-given lookalike rating: 6 of 10. Not bad.
Bio: Rooq was a smart, stabilizing force off the bench for Team USA, running the offense well and playing solid defense. Mike Chandler’s point guard at Lawrence North in Indy, Rooq provided good leadership off the court, too. He also hit, what at the time, was the biggest shot of the tournament for us.
Quirk: Led Team USA in smoothness and tattoos.

Marshall Plumlee
Year: Junior
Position: C
Hometown: Winona Lake, IN
College: Undecided
Team-given lookalike: Butthead, from Beavis and Butthead
Team-given lookalike rating: 5 of 10. What’s funny about this is that Plumlee’s personality is diametrically opposite of Butthead’s. Butthead sits around critiquing music videos, Plumlee is always moving, doing something.
Bio: The youngest Plumlee son–in case you live under a large rock, his two older brothers, Miles and Mason, just won a national championship at Duke–Marshall is hard-hustling big with great energy. His low-post game is still developing, but his contributions defending the paint and on the glass were enough to warrant him major minutes for Team USA. Amazingly, despite having two high profile older brothers and being the youngest son in a basketball family, Plums has no discernible ego. None. What. So. Ever.
Quirk: Great with kids.

Jamal Tuck
Year: Senior
Position: SG
Hometown: Aviano, Italy via Alabama
College: Undecided.
Team-given lookalike: Kobe Bryant
Team-given lookalike rating: 6 of 10. Tuck is an American-born two-guard who has spent a lot of time playing ball in Italy.
Bio: An athletic kid who should be able to score the ball at the next level, Tuck handled a lack of burn as well as you can expect a kid in his situation to.
Quirk: Likes Alabama more than Italy. This highlights something about being a kid in an army family: home truly is where you’re from and not where you’re at.

Dillon Wadsack
Year: Junior
Position: G
Hometown: Ramstein, Germany via San Antonio, TX
College: Undecided
Team-given lookalike: A human version of the main character from Antz, although some groupies also said he looked like one of characters from Twilight.
Team-given lookalike rating: 7 of 10. We haven’t seen either of those films but any time those surrounding you compare you to Hollywood characters—animated or otherwise—that can’t be a bad thing.
Bio: The local boy and ex-teammate of Team USA ’08 Schweitzer alum Brent Shuck, Dillon filled in well off the bench, executing on offensive and fighting hard on D. He was one of the many quiet and diligent workers who contributed to Team USA’s excellent chemistry and great reputation around the army base.
Quirk: He’s not a player, he just crushes a lot.

Kevin Ware
Year: Junior
Position: SG
Hometown: Atlanta via the Bronx.
College: Tennessee
Team-given lookalike: Chris Tucker.
Team-given lookalike rating: 7 of 10. Ware knows when to laugh at a funny joke.
Bio: An explosive guard with a solid midrange game, Ware started next to Ryan Boatright and created far more opportunities off of dribble penetration than the officials gave him credit for. A few impressive dunks also got the GI’s out of their seats. Injuries slowed Ware down a little bit as the tournament wore on. Regardless, we’re amped to see what he does under Bruce Pearl in a little over a year’s time.
Quirk: This may be a trend that we’re not aware of, but KWare uses the letter Q more than anybody we’ve met (I.e. “I qotta qo work on my qame). We like this. The letter q is underrated.

Andrew White
Year: Junior
Position: F
Hometown: Chester, VA
College: Undecided
Team-given lookalike: Rajon Rondo
Team-given lookalike rating: 8 of 10. White could pass for Rondo’s taller, younger brother.
Bio: “Midrange out the ass,” is the way one teammate described White’s game. Indeed, White came on strong and nailed a few pretty midrange jumpers in the medal rounds after not seeing much action earlier in the tournament. White has a lot of untapped potential and room to grow both physically—he’s long and rangy–and on the court. We’re very excited for his future.
Quirk: Quiet, but also excellent at making an argument. White might have a career as a lawyer after basketball.

Royce Woolridge
Year: Senior
Position: SG/SF
Hometown: Phoenix, Arizona, via L.A.
College: Kansas
Team-given lookalike: Flo-Rida
Team-given lookalike rating: 5 of 10. Decent, although it would have been better if Royce looked like a different Florida-based rapper, Rick Ross, so we could yell BAWSE! whenever he did something.
Bio: Royce was an excellent captain for Team USA. He went about his business and the rest followed suit. The son of former NBA player, Orlando Woolridge, and younger brother of Tennessee’s Ronaldo Woolridge, Royce plays hard on both ends of the floor and boasts some finishing moves that belie his age. He led Team USA in minutes played and often guarded the other team’s best player.
Quirk: Might end up winning So You Think You Dance.

Team USA was coached by former NBA player and coach Larry Krystkowiak. Krystkowiak challenged the team by installing a lot of NBA offensive sets, and the kids responded well. He watched copious amounts of film (some of it with yours truly) and communicated well to these young up-and-comers. His communication and leadership reminded us of a really good AP teacher.

Assistant Coach Scott Willard—my Kenyon fraternity brother, like “finding a needle in a haystack expo center” as I put it in ’08—helped with the Xs and Os and the scouting. It’s worth noting that Willard graduated three DI players this year from The Miller School in Virginia, where he coaches and ADs. Assistants Willis Holliday (played with former Piston Michael Curry at Georgia Southern and coaches some feisty, pressing ladies for the AAU South Carolina Cougars) and Francis Williams (big in the Seattle basketball scene) helped run practice and keep the troops in line. Team USA was put together by Darren Matsubara of Adidas, who might have a degree in applied chemistry. Mats also brought his daughter’s stuffed unicorn to Mannheim. “Put that in your blog.” Consider it done.

Team chaperon Martin Hopfner proved to be the most incredible German of all-time by rooting for Team USA against his own country. And I, the journalist, earned the team-anointed nickname of “Malibu’s Most Wanted,” fitting because I like that film way too much.

“That’s what writing stories is about, no matter how deep you get. You don’t want to sugarcoat somebody’s life. You want to say, ‘This is what his life was and this is where he is now.’” — Gilbert Arenas, on Mike Wise and himself, as told to Dave McMenamin.

*

I was on the phone with my dad when the Gilbert story blew up, and in the middle of some concise analysis I started rambling about how I didn’t want to write anything about Agent Zero because I’ve already read so much. Via Twitter, blogs and my daily intake perusing the web, I’d decided that when it came to Gilbert-related drama a) “opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one” and b) absorbing all of this information, like rapid osmosis, without devoting any real time to truly stopping to think about it, was completely desensitizing.

Then, in the middle of my rant about how I didn’t want to write about him I started listing Gilbert pranks off the top of my head so my dad could get a more complete psychological profile of Gazo The Prankster, as his short-lived cartoon character was dubbed.

He stole his teammate’s rims, he took a game of paintball way too far, he took a shit in his teammate’s shoes…

The good thing about being sensitive is that you’re only desensitized to things that matter for so long.

**

In the early summer of ’94 I was 11 years old. I wasn’t quite The Wacknessbut The Articulate Corniness isn’t far off. Shots fired by an enigmatic gunner (John Starks) made me cry a lot. I watched Game 6 of the ’94 Finals at my aunt and uncle’s house in Gaithersburg, MD. The day after Hakeem Olajuwon blocked a potential New York Knicks championship from happening, I went out on to the court in the park behind their house to vent. I shot. And shot. And shot.

White boy with a jumper…that old chestnut.

A few weeks later, I was on my way to West Point for soccer camp. One of my roommates was a teammate from my travel team. Our fathers thought that it would be a good idea for us to room together because we played on the same team and carpooled together.

Uh…

Here’s a scene from one of our indoor practices earlier that winter:

“Hey Jake, do you know what a c*nt is?”

“No.”

“Do you have a c*nt, Jake?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jake, do you have a cl*t?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

And so on and so forth until, in attempt to get them to quit, I inadvertently and incorrectly admitted that I was something resembling Jakey Lee Curtis. Ugh, I was never good with the double reverse psychology.

Flash forward a few months and I, The Articulate Corniness, am stuck in a room, onthe campus of the fucking United States Army, with the Napoleonic ringleader of this conversation and a small Asian kid with amazing comedic timing.

You can make it through this week, I thought. So what if you have to be “Applejacks aka Jack Applescratch” for a week; at least it’s kind of funny. Just roll with it and you’ll be home in no time. Work on your game. Forget about your hoop dreams, and remember that before you picked up a basketball, you wanted to be Paolo Maldini, the dogged, skilled AC Milan left tackle. Make the drill sergeant instructors appreciate your heart so that when the elves go hard at you, you won’t even care, you’ll just fall asleep.

That was probably my biggest mistake on the second to last night of the ’94 West Point Soccer Camp for 11 year-olds: I fell asleep.

I woke up because I felt like something heavy was clinging to my face. I heard snickering when I woke, but I thought it was related to a dream. As I stood up, gravity accentuated the sticky weight on my face.

Santa’s mini Maradonas cackled gleefully. They got me. And there was nothing I could say or do to change the situation. I’d done everything right: ignored them, channeled my anger, quietly and with dignity, into the best soccer of my childhood.

I scrubbed my face like a madman’s son. It took a little while, but the toothpaste came off. Finally, back to sleep. It would all be over soon.

Or not.

There was a knock on our door. It was the cadet patrolling our hallway. He heard a disturbing scream and laughter in the room. We were up and had broken curfew.

“But…” I explained what happened. They couldn’t hide from the truth, their pride was immense.

The punishment: all three of us would do wall sits–when you sit on an imaginary chair with perfect posture while leaning against a wall. Try it some time. It’s so much fun; you get to trade thighs with Amy Winehouse. It didn’t matter who had done what. We had all broken curfew and had to be punished. In fairness to the cadet, he let me get up a minute or so before them, so I could watch them in pain for a little while.

Even so, if anybody asks you why we invaded and bombed Iraq following 9/11, you tell them that story.

Now, would a young Gilbert Arenas have handled that prank differently? I want to believe that he would have. That he would have prevented my scream somehow. That he would have handed me a clean, wet towel to wipe my face off. That he’d talk to me about why the prank was funny. That he would explain why Crest is better at creating a sticky crust than Colgate, but not Tom’s of Maine because he wouldn’t know what that is.

He’d explain how he did it, and why I was a good sport for dealing with it. Then, he’d mention his absent mom briefly, and I’d realize there was a deeper person behind the mask; and then he’d run off, climb a fence, and sneak into the mess hall in the middle of the night, as the moonlight beamed brightly and beautifully off of giant the “SINK NAVY” sign, to steal some chicken nuggets for us because I hadn’t snitched.

I want to believe all of that because there’s a part of me that still loves Gilbert Arenas, or the person that the media has made me to believe he is.

Now, if you believe I’m just another guy with in an Agent Zero Mothering Hut hoodie that fed into some strategic personality marketing, understand: It goes so much deeper than that.

***

It’s 13 years later (2007), and we’re back at that court in Gaithersburg. A good 40 minutes from the Verizon Center, where Gilbert likes to loft jumpers at 4 a.m. It’s where I dreamed SLAM would shoot (photographs of) Gilbert Arenas for a cover story I’d write. The court has a great, natural open light and there are two halfcourts, side by side. The park has a cozy, suburban feel to it, but it’s a little bit hood, too, as the other side of the train tracks (literally) and a foster home define court’s northern and western borders, respectively. It’s also the only court I’ve practiced on periodically throughout my entire basketball-playing life.

The cover story isn’t just going to be a cover story. It’s part of a bigger idea. I wanted to write a book about all of the different types of basketball media through the context of Gilbert Arenas. It was going to start out with a discussion of how Mike Wise’s eye-opening stories proved journalism wasn’t dying, and continue on to Michael Lee and Ivan Carter, who would help me enlighten the masses with a discourse that discussed how covering this enigmatic personality redeemed the overworked beat writer. From there, Tom Chiarella’s brilliant psychoanalysis in Esquire and Chuck Klosterman’s fascinating New York Times Magazine piece would open up a forum to meditate on thought-provoking, intellectual profile writing and the need for more interesting athletes to give us something more than tired cliches.

The book would move on to SLAM and I’d talk about how Gilbert both did and didn’t represent what SLAM was about, and how SLAM simultaneously did and didn’t represent what the rest of the media was about, including the halcyon days when SLAMonline was a single page.

The tale would then leave the printed page and move to Dan Steinberg’s DC Sports Bog to discuss how the newspaper world was adapting to necessary changes on the internet through the context of professional blogging. Then, NBA.com and the art of the as-told-to blog, and Gilbert representing the League as a unique new personality, before twisting and turning towards the emerging blogs like TrueHoop and Fanhouse, quickly becoming beastly brands and changers of how we consume information.

And then we would move underground, to websites so unique you couldn’t make them up unless you did, like Wizznutzz, and the high-quality team site Bullets Forever (run by a college kid at Brandeis, who lived down the hall from my girlfriend’s younger brother…strange but good karma there). It would end up with FreeDarko and how Gilbert is seen by individual, liberated fan(s). Because Gilbert is nothing if not an individual, and liberated. Or not.

It’s probably for the best this didn’t happen; it would have been dated by the time it was fully written and I don’t think I was ready to write something of such scope, though that didn’t stop me from making diagrams with concentric circles, taking plenty of notes and thinking of Gazo The Pranksta as the face of Aquafresh Fluoride.

****

I don’t believe Gilbert Arenas is a bully, except I do believe Gilbert Arenas is a bully, a natural hypocrite like many of the world’s most interesting people. He’s a prankster, but often, the difference between being a prankster and a bully is negligible. A prankster fires happily away from behind the three-point arc, thinking he’s safe from scorn because he doesn’t often play in the paint with the ruffians. But the second a prankster’s 23-foot three becomes a 22-foot brick, he’s crossed the line, even if he’s merely toeing it. Two points is two points, and human interaction and emotion are universal, no matter how closed off and pride-swallowing SPAR-TA warrior beast society wants you to be.

If you’re sitting there thinking, man, you’re standing up for these tough-as-nails youngsters who had the intestinal fortitude to make it into the League and play a child’s game for a living…well, you’re damn right I am. Think about the NBA. What percentage of its players come from broken homes, or made it out of the hood because they had the necessary narcissistic streak to build a protective shield around themselves that they pray every night will continue to provide failure’s antidote? Better yet, how many of them got their own high from being the big prankster cheese in high school or college?

Now imagine you’re Dominic McGuire or Nick Young, and a veteran you look up to is firing paint ball pellets at your metaphorical shield and your body, to the point that you ask him to stop, and you’re crying on the inside. (Just ask Gilbert: “So [McGuire]‘s laying in the car all mad saying, ‘I don’t want to play no more.’ So the war is still on.”) Or you’re Andray Blatche and you find his feces in your fresh kicks, which seems gross but innocent enough until you realize (or don’t realize) clean sneakers are the perfect representation of how you want to feel about yourself, a symbol of the fresh confidence you need to keep in the forefront of your mind. What can you say? Nothing. Your team doesn’t give a shit about you–no pun intended–in comparison, so you just smile and toe the company line with a tired “that’s just Gilbert being Gilbert.”

Meanwhile, you internalize the brunt of the post-prank emotional baggage you have to carry on your next “what city is this again?” six game road trip. Oh yeah, and you’re how old? 19? 21? 23? Your peers are getting drunk and growing up by learning about college mistakes and you’re taking this guff from a guy with the hundred-million dollar contract. You’re a “professional,” and you’d heard the stories, but nobody told you that you were actually pledging Gilbert Alpha Phi.

*****

When Gilbert unleashed his flame fanning finger guns of fuck serious, the League and the Wizards took a temporary dry eraser to his existence with good reason: a true jester doesn’t know when to quit until he’s kicked off the stage. It’s often when he’s told he’s superfluous that the person inside the clown begins to come to terms with the real pain that is part and parcel of their personality’s brilliance.

Before we get to the real meat and potatoes and conjecture about Gilbert Arenas’ psyche, let’s take a quick trip back to November. Michael Lee of the Washington Post reporting:

Gilbert Arenas had an announcement to make as he walked through the locker room on Saturday. Arenas lifted his headphones from his ears, smiled and proclaimed, “I’m Zero. I’m not Gilbert no more.”

“Gilbert’s not working out,” said Arenas, who claimed he retired his Agent Zero and Hibachi personas on media day.

Asked why he decided to go back to Agent Zero, Arenas said, “It ain’t working if we lost five in a row. Coach told me he didn’t want the angry man no more. So, he’s back.”

Arenas’s personal trainer, Tim Grover, is in town visiting him during this long home stand. Grover walked into the locker room, tapped Arenas on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go, Hibachi.”

Arenas nodded, and they went to the weight room.

Mike Miller was getting dressed at a nearby locker stall and was grinning when he heard Arenas respond to the name, “Hibachi.”

“I’ve been waiting on Hibachi all year,” Miller said.

Now, everybody compartmentalizes. I view myself slightly differently when I’m around different people, just as you do. But to take it to the level Gilbert did–at his job, a place of responsibility where he’s watched by millions of people–is incredibly dangerous.

Let’s look at his three personas.

Agent Zero: the competitive athlete who has used every slight to his advantage and–through the miracle of the right skill set, right work ethic and thousands upon hundreds of thousands hoisted jumpers–has made his dream a reality. An assassin on the court and lighthearted, funny figure off of it. Loved by fans and teammates alike.

Gazo The Pranksta: Some would argue Gazo is part of Agent Zero, but I think he’s the archetypal devil on the shoulder, the counterpoint to the Agent Zero angel. Gazo, partly his fault, partly the fault of his employer, thought he could get away with anything. Like bringing guns into a locker room. Whereas Agent Zero was the face the public saw most of the time, Gazo was the mischief behind the scenes.

Gilbert Arenas: a serious man. A father and beacon of hope in the community. An undersized kid with an over-sized personality who has overcome tremendous adversity in his life, but an adult with serious real life baggage. Not compact baggage like that of a sleepless beat writer traveling light from city to city; metaphorical baggage that piles up in a dark corner away from fame’s limelight. Gilbert doesn’t have a lot of time for “Gilbert time”, so Gazo and Zero take the reins when it’s time for a defense mechanism to kick in. It’s survival mode. Everyone has one.

Three personas for one superstar…

Having said that, you must excuse the obviousness here, but Gilbert Arenas isn’t a persona. He’s a person. And therein lies the giant fucking problem.

When you can publicly dismiss yourself, or a specific rendition of yourself, seemingly without consequence, you’re setting yourself up for a day of reckoning. Ask Daryl Dawkins about the last time he chilled on Lovetron. (For what it’s worth, NBA players are set up to fail in this regard: speak in cliches, don’t talk to reporters the way you might a friend or even an acquaintance; bottle up your feelings and leave it all out on the court. Gilbert’s compartmentalizing might have just been an extension of an already learned behavior.)

Now, if you’ve followed David Stern, you have to believe in lessons. If you think Charles Barkley threw a guy through a plate glass window, talked about not being a role model, gambled compulsively (still does), yet suddenly ended up as our favorite talking head, you’re kidding yourself. Gilbert has all the potential to make it as a public figure after he retires, if he so chooses, and all the horrible PR this incident has incurred can be turned. But he’ll never have the carte blanche he had before and he needs to learn about himself and his pain before he can segue into the next act of his life.

It won’t be easy. It’s hard to sacrifice some of yourself for the greater good. The Knights of the Roundball Table have kicked the Jester out of the Royal Court and have asked him to, not only learn about the man behind the mask, but come up with some new material. In that vein: Hey Gilbert, did you hear that Ice Cube and Eddie Murphy are starring in “The Nutty Professor 7: Are we There Yet?” It’s rated PG.

In ’10-11, wherever he is, Gilbert Arenas will have a mostly fresh cast of characters with which to work and a muddied slate to try and wipe clean. Because we want Gilbert to succeed, because his message has always been one of hope and hard work despite the pranks, we can only pray he has a new teammate we don’t see. Someone probably in a plaid sweater, reclining in a lazy boy and listening intently to a famous basketball player truly try and discover who he is–reconciliation between a man and himself.

Sure, it’s just a movie but maybe someone like this:

Maybe he already has one. Regardless, opening up to himself and treating his life–past, present and future–with the same respect that he treated his game growing up is the only way for him to truly get to wherever he wants to go.

We (the media) can help him issue apologies and let him tell us what he’s learned, but we can’t be there to truly make him feel better behind the scenes. He has to do that.

******

The only time I spoke to Gilbert Arenas one-on-one was on December 29, 2006. I was doing a feature on Adam Morrison for SLAM 106. The story appropriately ended up being called Dazed But Not Confused, the “not” a nod to the scoring promise shown by Morrison’s good performances every third night or so.

Morrison never returned my 16 calls after a double OT game derailed any chance for an extensive in-person interview. This led to the only story in which I explicitly compare myself, as a human being, to a player in the NBA, for good reasons that were only strengthened by Morrison’s lack of interest in an interview. In the middle of the story, I was so lost that I cried–somewhat ironically–for the first time since an October night in Madrid over a year before. In retrospect, Morrison wasn’t playing well enough to deserve the interview and probably knew this. For his sake, I sincerely, sincerely hope he’s enjoying his time with the Lakers, crisscrossing his legs with the talented purple-and-gold bench mob. That’s the least of what he deserves: a left-wing radio show, Amanda Seyfried, partial ownership of an ABA team, etc.

I procured tickets to the Magic-Wizards game that night, as it was my aunt’s birthday, a day to celebrate my mom’s younger sister, the woman who fed me on visits to Gaithersburg before I’d run off to my favorite playground. Except it wasn’t an occasion for celebration. My aunt had died a little over a year before and I had missed the funeral because I couldn’t afford to fly home during my study abroad in Spain.

The tickets were a way of family coming together and enjoying something during an especially trying time, and enjoy it we did. I moved from a press seat to join my kin in the nosebleeds and we watched Gilbert go off for 36 points, 9 rebounds and 7 assists. The Wizards won their fifth straight to improve to 17-12 and officially moved into first place for the first time that late in a season since 1978. None of that mattered, though, and I barely noticed any of it. I was somewhere else. Cloud 10. Mostly because my 12-year-old cousin was able to attend the game as an honorary ball boy and forget about the weight of the night because got to meet his one of his heroes: Gilbert Arenas.

That night, my uncle looked at me with a pride that I know is so rare and special in this world. Given the context, this might have been as special a night as he’d ever had watching a basketball game in the DC/MD area; impressive because he had courtside seats to the Bullets back the 70′s. I’ll never forget, as long as I live, how animated he got describing Bobby Dandridge’s buttery jumper to me when I was just a kid. His description remains visceral to this day, in part because I saw him cheering for the Bullets on ESPN Classic once.

He knows the game like few others and has an uncanny ability to mix cliched responses with incisive analysis.

If this was verbal tennis, LeBron would be Pete Sampras, smooth and methodically excellent at the task at hand. Practice makes perfect. Pregame. In game. Postgame.

It’s what makes the lingering silence after the first “Uhhhmm…” such a fun change of pace.

It’s what makes the second “uhhh….” so cool.

He’s actually stopping to think in the moment. Instead of being bowled over by a fast moving train of thought, you can actually watch the process.

How did this happen? We kept it simple.

“LeBron, how would describe your performance tonight in one word?”

“Uhhm………………Uhh………………My performance tonight, it was OK. Two letters, I guess. That’s one word.”

A few laughs. Well played.

I ask LeBron this following Friday night’s 100-95 victory over the 76ers because I’ve been tracking his play and bolding the word, or words, that seem most befitting of each sequence.

Why do this? With injuries to Shaq and Antawn, LeBron would need to assert his will on the game even more than usual. It would be throwback to the days when he had less help and it would be nice to see how he played following a six-day layoff.

Anything else you need to know? The first half featured more dunks than a Dunkin Donuts Shop, with cops in it, dunking donuts, while talking about butchered House of Pain lyrics. The second half featured defense. Quite the juxtaposition.

First Quarter

–LeBron throws chalk in the air. Some in the crowd applaud.

–Fouls Andre Iguodala on a long jumper. Offers a “who me?” look.

–Finds J.J. Hickson for a baseline jumper. Easy assist.

–Lets Brand sneak behind him for a layup. Not his man, but the mindset playing defense with one early foul is interesting.

–Look-away dime to Mo Williams for a corner three.

–Good change of pace on a far-too-easy drive to the cup for two. Good spin on the layup as well.

–Drills a wing three off a feed from Anthony Parker.

–Loses Iggy on defense, who throws down an alley-oop.

–Minimalist boxing out in transition D. Brand gets a put-back.

–Slick feed to J.J. Hickson, who drives baseline for a reverse throw down.

–Follows Iggy into the paint on a drive. Not great dribble penetration recovery but enough to potentially block the shot. Ball out of bounds to the Sixers.

–With one foul, he doesn’t challenge Lou Williams enough on a dunk. Not the result you’d want, but a wise decision.

–Good close-out on an Iggy jumper. Gets a hand in his eyes.

–Unselfish pass in to Powe down low. Doesn’t yield anything, but a good look to the substitute starter nonetheless.

–Pulls up for three on the break. It’s good.

–Bricks another pull-up three. Heat check. Fail.

–Poor team defense leaves his man, Iggy, open for a corner three.

–Dives to the rim. Mo’s pass goes to Parker, who drains a corner three. Good space-creating.

–Excellent speed leaking out in transition. Fouled by Sammy Dalembert. Almost gives himself a three-point play opportunity. He hits both free throws.

–Sweet look-away to Anderson Varejao for an easy two-handed flush.

–Draws the defense in on penetration; in the air he finds Hickson with a nice feed underneath. J.J. travels.

–Iggy leaks out and draws a controversial foul. Foul ends up being on Delonte. LeBron can stay on the floor.

–Drives into the lane. Misses a floater. Good idea, but poor transition D; Iggy throws down a mosnter one-handed alley-oop. He has 14.

–Comes back and gets into the paint, drawing Iggy’s second foul.

–Iggy gets out in transition and throws down a sick dunk over Jamario Moon. Assignment?

Summation: 12 points 5 assists, 1 rebound and one wicked wild west shootout brewing with Iggy, who has 16. He gives the crowd the spectacular they came for, sometimes at the expense of defense. The creativity and the unselfishness he’s known for are on full display.

Second Quarter

–Re-enters halfway into the quarter. The crowd buzzes.

–Matched up with Rodney Carney. Even more rest perhaps…

–A nice feed to Anderson Varejao is nullified by a 3-second violation.

–Grabs the rebound and steamrolls down the other end, drawing the foul and almost converting another three-point play. Misses both.

–Well executed penetration and dish to Jamario Moon cutting baseline for a dunk.

–Give-and-go hand-off with Anderson Varejao, goes back to him for a hook shot.

–Frustrated shrug at the sight of another defensive breakdown.

–More frustration following an Elton Brand tip-in that came off of Iguodala penetration. He’s all like, “guys, why can’t we get stops?”

–Fantastic bounce pass to Anderson Varejao for a transition layup. Perfectly weighted, if you wanna get all soccer about it.

–Gets into the paint. Draws contact. Splits the pair to end the half.

Summation: LeBron scores one point. He helps move the ball per usual, but tones it down following the first frame’s fireworks. Sixers score 23 for the quarter and the Cavs D still looks bad.

Third Quarter

–Comes around a screen, bricks an elbow jumper. Interesting way to start the third after being so quiet in the second.

–Matched up with Jrue Holiday, like at the end of the second quarter. Funky matchup.

–Poor pass to Leon Powe. Batted down, turnover.

–Cuts backdoor, misses a tough layup. Cavs get the o-board. He drains a wing three.

–Zips all around the place offering help, before lunging at Lou Williams’ corner three. Traps Brand baseline following an offensive rebound. Eventually harasses Jrue on a drive to the rim. 24-second violation. Effort.

Summation: Sixers come back from 11 to take the lead. Not a lot of positives to impart; he missed a few shots, passed the ball perhaps a little bit too much and didn’t engage Iggy in the shootout. And 7 team turnovers in a single quarter hurt. A lot.

Fourth Quarter:

–Stays half-and-half on a Jrue drive to the hoop. It seems indecisve but the result is positive: a Sixer turnover.

–Sets up Delonte, who misses. Then Moon misses a three off a LeBron skip pass. She’s abrick…house.

–Misses a step-back three. A whole lot of settling.

–Swats at a Thad Young shot; it misses but Sixers get the rebound. Cavs get the next stop and he shares the board with Andy.

–Good form on a boxout of Sammy D, but SD is too tall and grabs the board.

–After Iggy turns on the afterburner to get to the line, another look of disbelief from LeBron. Not that he was even guarding AI on the play.

–Finds Mo off a flare screen, then Moon with the kickout. Moon hits the three. Cavs take the lead. It’s a whole lot of creating.

–Initiates a long ball movement sequence with a two-handed over-the-head skip pass to the corner. Delonte misses a three, but the Cavs get the quick board, and the Sixers have suddenly forgotten about him, so he sneaks backdoor and throws down two handed alley-oop dunk.

–Steals a pass thrown to Sammy D like a free safety. Great athleticism.

–Runs an intricate route, complete with a very well sold fake, on a slice to the hoop. Fouled. Splits the pair.

–Recovers to swat Iggy’s dunk attempt out of bounds from behind.

–Helps to space the floor on a Mo Will dagger three, off a high pick-and-roll with Andy Varejao. [He does this--helps to space the floor--a lot, but we'll only mention it once.]

–Allows Thad Young to follow up his miss.

–Draws the D on a smart foray to the rim, but misses a complex layup. Thankfully, having drawn the defense out of position, Varejao cleans up the mess easily.

–Thad Young scores on him in the paint. Lots of spinning. It’s like laundry.

–Contested pull-up over Iggy with the shot clock winding down.

–Almost grabs an offensive board off of a Mo Williams miss, but doesn’t. Gets a steal down the other end, though.

–Kick out to Moon for a wiiiiiiide open three. Good execution, but the shot misses. Sixers ball with 24.1 remaining, down 98-95.

–Gives Jrue baseline. Kid throws it to Delonte. Game over.

Summation: LeBron ratchets up his defensive intensity in the fourth quarter and the Cavs follow suit, eking out an ugly win. 7-18 from the floor, 3-10 from three, 6-12 from the line, 10 assists (could have been more) and six rebounds. It’s OK because of the 1 win.

I’m third in a line of assorted media looking for some of Derrick Rose’s time pregame, and I distinguish myself by saying that I’m “SLAM’s resident Poohdini expert,” which isn’t totally true, but it sure sounds good. We rap for a little while about basic stuff. Derrick isn’t much for offering elaborate answers–he credits the late game exploits of teammates for his own resurgence following an ankle injury, and appreciates that I’m not pushing his buttons too hard.

But when I ask–from the perspective of someone who has never manned the point–if his decision-making process is natural or if he’s thinking a few steps ahead, he says matter-of-factly that it’s the former; what I dub the perfect combination of practice makes perfect and go with the flow.

I could have asked his teammates for their thoughts, but they were busy wearing shoes that look like the Batmobile, listening to Jadakiss and joking that, in the second half their last game against the Sixers, Samuel Dalembert shot the ball “like the basket was moving.”

The home whiteboard advises the Sixers to corral Rose and Kirk Hinrich on dribble penetration with early help from bigs and to keep an eye on cutters. Food for thought.

Program Alert: Willie Green (replacing Allen Iverson, not at the game for personal reasons) and Jrue Holiday (took Lou Williams’ spot two weeks ago) are starting in the backcourt for the Sixers.

It’s also worth noting that Taj Gibson is yawning hardcore just before the opening tip, which would be akin to me preparing to type my first sentence by throwing my laptop on the ground. We haven’t even started and it seems that Rose will need to overcome Gibson.

**

First Stanza

The first frame (2-6, 6 points, 3 assists, 1 rebound, 1 turnover) is a mix of the regular and the spectacular for Rose.

The Normal: Rose does a good job initiating and facilitating rudimentary ball movement. These sequences lead to long jumpers and more complex developments that don’t in any way credit or discredit the man that started them. It’s worth remembering that even when Rose has no bearing statistically on the play, he usually tips the first domino.

Complacency: The Sixers’ bigs, true to their whiteboard’s instructions, help to keep Rose out of the paint. It’s not direct trapping (that would come later), but the help packs the paint tightly, discouraging No. 1 from many fearless forays. Derrick’s reaction to this is set up on the left wing and play a two-man game with a big, usually Joakim Noah or Taj Gibson.

Because the painted area is crowded with wild swinging Sammy Dalembert arms and a semi-revitalized Elton Brand, and because Derrick has worked hard at improving his jumper recently, he’s quick with the trigger on midrange pull-ups. He makes one and misses a few others, leading me to wish he’d test the defense and try slithery attacks to the hoop more than three times in almost 10 minutes of game action. However, knowing that he played the night before and needs to conserve energy for a late push, I can’t fully blame him.

A Lack of Help: Derrick Rose is not a good help defender. There’s a good insecurity–we’ll call it fully aware concern–to many of the League’s best help defenders. Rose’s insecurity is attention and confusion-based. He turns his head too much and rarely puts his body in position to see two things simultaneously.

There’s also a lot of stalking the opponent’s shot. Rose spends a prolonged period of time waiting for the shot to go up and for the subsequent rebound to be corralled so that somebody can get him the ball quickly. This prevents him from boxing out as much as possible, which is either good or bad depending on your philosophy. If you want him aiding the rebound effort, you’re pissed. If you want him readying the transition game, you can live with it.

Moreover, since he’s not guarding a guy (Holiday) that’s a threat to score often on this night, he spends a lot of time waiting for offense. It’s almost like he’s in a relationship with the ball and doesn’t know what to do when he’s not in control of his baby. Not that I can blame these instincts; the ball, which he shares, most definitely loves him back.

The Spectacular: This is what you would pay money for: 1) Rose sets himself up on the right wing. He uses a beautiful spin dribble as he begins his drive–which leads legendary Philadelphia Daily News columnist Phil Jasner to exclaim “oh my, that was beautiful!” He jackknifes his way into the paint and draws a foul. He hits both free throws.

2) He forms a triangle with Luol Deng and Brad Miller and a screen cycle ensues. When he receives the ball, he penetrates and finds Tyrus Thomas for an easy two. Fantastic vision. It’s great because it’s an assist he worked for; he set a screen, ran a play and lulled the Sixers’ D to sleep before catching them off guard with a change of pace.

A Sublime Moment: He pats his chest like it’s his fault after Noah misreads Deng on a potential backdoor cut and throws the ball out of bounds. This is admirable and shows a maturity that belies his age.

Rest: As Hammertime blares over the loudspeakers during a timeout Rose doesn’t dance, or notice. He’s paying attention to Vinny Del Negro. He does not realize that MC Hammer’s words are in his presence around the same time that Vanilla Ice is performing at the Raptors-Nets game. Good for him. We should all be so lucky.

Slowing: I’m not sure why the Bulls aren’t running more (they end up with two fast break points for the half). Maybe it’s that Rose on the Bulls is like a Porsche engine on a VW Golf. Or maybe it’s that Vinny is ignorant. Or maybe there’s just something I’m not seeing here. Regardless, Rose does a good job in the second quarter of feeding his teammates in the right spots in the halfcourt. To his credit, he doesn’t get bogged down and force crap plays. He tosses a simple pass into Tyrus Thomas in the post. Tyrus throws up a complex air ball. Still…not a bad idea. He pushes the tempo just a touch–the right touch–and finds Hinrich for a corner three. Then he penetrates and draws the defense in, hitting Kirk in the other corner for a trey. When his teammates miss shots off of good ball movement, it’s not his fault and you wonder if they had the knack for tossing better passes, maybe some of those shots would fall.

The Bulls lead by six heading into halftime behind efficient production from Deng, Tyrus and Kirk (14-19 from the floor).

Some of our talking points: Aggrey reports that Rose has developed a lot over the past few months and that he’s been working hard with Randy Brown on different things. His jumper is more fluid than it used to be and he stopped going hard to rack and tossing up floaters because he felt he wasn’t getting calls.

We agree that he might be shooting too many jumpers and this may be because he’s worked hard on it, so he’s trying to employ it more in his arsenal. Aggrey asserts that he’s still a weak overall defender, in part because he’s never been taught; he got by based on athleticism in high school and he spent his year in college pressing opponents. Now he’s with Vinny Del Negro. So…yeah.

*****

Third Stanza

Rose’s third quarter line (4-5, a three (!), 9 points, 0 assists, 0 rebounds) is pass-backwards and turns his first half performance upside-down.

Sluggish: It’s not surprising that a team playing on the second night of a back-to-back on the road would come out disinterested after a first half that featured hot shooting from their supporting talent. What’s disappointing is that everyone–from the top on down–is culpable. You could make the argument that the Bulls lost the game in the third quarter and nobody would be able to blame you. “We should have just put this game away when we had the chance to,” Rose says after the loss.

How did this sluggishness include our subject? From the notebook… He had a few near turnovers. He threw a poor entry feed. He played lax on-the-ball defense, allowing Andre Iguodala all the space and sight in the world to hit a cutting Willie Green for a too-easy layup. He let Jrue Holiday cut for a layup on an inbounds play. He carelessly lost the ball at the top-of-the-key. Yet, if you looked at the third quarter box, you’d probably shrug and say, “oh he probably should have just passed a little more.” Again, wrong.

The Well Dries Up: Rose did pass the ball during the third quarter. His teammates just–instead of filling it up–engaged in what I’d like to call free-masonry, except that would imply that the Bulls have some sort of secret. And anyone who watches the Bulls knows that they have no secrets; just a super-talented point guard and parts that range from really good to capable to “wait, Taj Gibson is starting?”

Exceptional Cuts: An accentuated bounce to his step led to overly-jagged jump-stops on his midrange pull-up. It mesmerized me. Twice. And he drilled both. Sidney Dean. Your thoughts? So pretty. It’s so, so pretty.

TWO POINT GUARDS: With just under four minutes left in the period, Deng stole the ball and the Bulls got out in transition. This was interesting because Derrick Rose didn’t have the ball. He was able to parlay his speed without the ball into a beautiful reverse layup. This begs the question: if Vinny is going to play–and not only play but start–Kirk Hinrich next to Derrick, why wouldn’t Rose be encouraged to run without the ball more? If he can be a one man fast break and succeed in the open floor without the ball–after all, without the ball he forces the defense to keep track of him–shouldn’t the Bulls be more than a middle of the road pace team? And if you’re a Bulls fan don’t you want the opportunity to see at least two more bricked 21-footers per game?

Have A Seat, Watch Some Crap: The Sixers go on an 8-4 run to end the quarter after Rose is subbed out. It’s 10-4 when he enters early in the fourth, facing a hill that’s now slanted up.

Aw Man, Not Again…: The Sixers would build the bulge, or the Bulls would miss a jumper, and Rose, sensing the urgency, would get to the rim on the ensuing possession. It’s a great lesson about a young kid with a never-say-die attitude, no matter how cliche that sounds. Does getting to the line and stopping the game help your energy level late in the second night of a back-to-back or hurt it? I don’t know. You’ll have to ask lactic acid.

As for the back-to-backs in general? “Oh, you feel it,” Rose says after the game with a chuckle, before extolling the virtues of learning how to sleep right and eat right on the road.

Whatever You Can Do, I Can Do Better: With four minutes left, Willie Green wets a pull-up in Rose’s eyes. He atones with a killer-crossover leading to a two-handed flush, a signature moment. Green comes back with the perfect counter, driving and creating for Lou Williams. After Deng travels, the Sixers call for time, setting up a riveting final few minutes.

Impossible Is Nothing?: Not sure how to break down Rose’s defense late in the game. When he wasn’t struggling to contain Royal Ivey and Green, it’s like he was doing nothing. I mean, he’s there. But I’m not quite sure he’s really there.

Not Rising To The Ultimate Challenge: Eddie Jordan finally switched Andre Iguodala on to Rose with under a minute to go and Iggy forced the Soph into a terrible shot. Clinical defense by AI. Arguably the game’s most important possession right there.

Game On The Line: Rose gets a semi-clean look on a baseline fadeaway. Off rim. The angle of the shot is rough, but the execution was good and the fact that the ball goes to the kid in that spot, while nothing new, is still impressive. And that’s what the great ones want, right? To hit ridiculous game-winners?

That it’s such a low-percentage shot isn’t as impressive.

The Bulls have won 9 of their last 13 and I’m sitting here all Vinni Viddi Itchy.

– He blows by Green for a layup. It’s a continuance of the “oh, crap we missed a jumper, I gotta do something good” syndrome.

–He’s partly responsible for a shot clock violation.

– He gets burned by Brand on a screen cycle. He recovers, and may have been bailed out because Green doesn’t take the shot.

– He doesn’t turn a fast break opportunity into anything. The potential advantage of a quick pass to Salmons on the left wing is nullified because Salmons doesn’t shoot. This leads to Salmons getting tied up and losing the jump ball.

– He beats Green to the cup. Gets to the line. Hits both.

– He watches Iggy’s three break a 98-all deadlock.

–He drives to the middle. Draws contact. No whistle. Gets mad.

– He’s beaten by a dribble handoff screen. He recovers somewhat with his speed, but it’s not enough to deter Green’s too-easy 10-footer, a shot that serves as the final nail in the coffin.

If this night is any indication, the young All-Star is developing nicely, but he’s got a ways to go.

Q: In the first half and in the third quarter you were making more simple plays; in the fourth quarter you had to ratchet it up a little bit. Do you think that comes more naturally to you every game or is that sort of a game by game thing where you need to turn it up in the fourth quarter?

A: Every game [laughs], almost every game. I can’t relax a night, honestly…My team trusts me and believes in me, for me to take them shots. They just gotta live and die with my decision.

The biggest thing to take away from this historic night is that the record-setting losing streak—and how it’s remembered—has been more about the journey than the result. To simply say the Nets took the road less traveled would be insulting to Robert Frost. They took the road less traveled, stopped at the side of the highway to let multiple dagger-wielding hitchhikers in, ate colonic-inducing fast food at every rest stop, and lost the friggin’ map, but only in the fourth quarter of close games.

All of it has been harrowing, and much of it undeserved: The opening night fourth-quarter letdown in Minnesota that should have never happened; Dwyane Wade’s buzzer beater after Q-Rich banked in a three to give Miami a chance; two hard-fought losses to the Sixers; a valiant effort against the Celtics; and some stinkers too, highlighted by the unmitigated disaster that was their recent West Coast swing.

Tonight was just the rancid cherry on top of a shit sandwich of bad luck, broken bones and missed opportunities. The Mavs shot 17 of 19 in the second quarter, scoring 49 points. The Nets outscored them in the other three. Sometimes talent just laughs in the face of effort. No really, ask Tim Thomas. He was there.

If anyone in the media truly believed this group deserved this, Tony Barrise’s postgame presser would have lasted longer than four minutes.

As it is, it’d be hard for any right-minded individual to overly rip a team whose fans—in the good seats, no less—start a “let’s go Dallas!” chant to celebrate infamy. Good to see they care. And the guy with the ” Never-Ending-Terrible-Season” sign seemed strangely proud of himself. “I’m on TV! Did you see me on SportsCenter?” Ugh.

The looks on the fans’ faces as they exited the morgue were a strange mix of stupefied embarrassment and typical indifference. Throw in a few masochistic grins for good measure.

I’d like to say those faces told the whole story, but then you’d stop reading.

PREGAME

A quick note on the Dallas dry-erase boards, as we seem to be attempting to become the authorities on the things. They also use black, red and blue, although the only thing in blue is the Nets roster, and the only thing in red is the underlining. The offensive and defensive notes appear to have been written by different people—the defense is in cursive, the offense in print. The final admonition is this: “*** THIS IS ABOUT ONE GAME. -PROCESS OF IMPROVING. -EXECUTION. -TRANSITION. -DECISIONS.” There’s no mention of how embarassing it would be to lose to an 0-17 team.

The media pours out of Tom Barrise’s pregame interview session, which took place in the tiny assistant coaches office. As the horde emerges, it appears the only thing lacking is cattle prods. It might as well have been a Basketball Writers of America meeting. The media room coat rack hasn’t seen this much love since the ’03 Finals.

While we’re on the subject of things that are too small, a few words on Courtney Lee’s skinny jeans:

If you weren’t aware of the circumstances surrounding the game and wandered into the home locker room beforehand, you wouldn’t have any idea that the Nets were teetering on the precipice of record-setting ignominy. The room is overflowing with giggles and laughter, thanks to the aforementioned pair of what I’m going to call “stone washed Lupe Fiasco thigh mittens.”

CDR presses the pants up to his waist to gauge just how short they are and hilarity follows. If these guys are nervous, it isn’t showing through. And if you thought Kanye’s style was completely transcendent, HA (!) you lose; score one for 1997, Allen Iverson and real hip-hop. (That noise you hear in the background is Sheek Louch screaming, “REAL HIP-HOP!”)

I will preface this next note with a disclaimer: Up until this year, I hated fantasy basketball. Just loathed it. Absolutely despised it for plenty of reasons we don’t need to get into. [I still despise it.] But then I joined two low-level pay leagues because I respect the folks running them, and ever since I’ve enjoyed myself. (I’m well aware that this may only be because I’m essentially trying to protect an investment, which means I’m just another low-grade degenerate gambler. Awesome.)

Now, Josh Howard is on my fantasy team, but he’s also been injured and thus unproductive. My squad, as currently constructed, will play three fewer games than my opponent this week. Naturally, it’s crossed my mind to go all out for the win and drop Josh or injured Latvian ostrich Andris Biedrins. Wanting to get the scoop from the man himself, I ask J-5 when he’s actually coming back, as he looked pretty good running through drills before the game. He says next week and a long discussion ensues about why I probably shouldn’t drop him.

Josh is appreciative of my support, but I’m suddenly wracked with guilt. It’s as if an imaginary combination of Gordon Gekko and The Talented Mr. Roto pressured me to commit an insider trading crime against fantasy sports. This is funny because you could argue that fantasy sports are an insider trading crime against real sports.

Seeking to rectify the situation, I give Josh a copy of the new SLAM, which I paid five bucks for at a newsstand. I explain that by transferring something of monetary value in exchange for the information, I feel more like the guy that paid a broker for advice than somebody who stole information out of privilege.

(You can counter that it’s not fair when the broker is the actual stock, but I’d respond by noting that nobody knows how a nagging ankle injury will play out, not even the dude whose ankle it is…What’s that? I’m getting locked in a cell with Brandon Funston, 27 cyber nerds and a running stats ticker with no visual aids? Well then [Samuel L. Jackson voice] get on with it, motherfuckers!)

Josh and I move on to talking about his Winston Salem charity work with CP3. Shawn Marion, having given up on understanding the transaction we just made, snatches the new SLAM from Josh and flips through it eagerly.

It’s around this time when the blonde giant crashes into the locker room. Dirk Nowitzki throws the door open with a crash, inadvertently demolishing the flimsy partition that keeps prying eyes from glimpsing, well, James Singleton. Dirk pauses to assess the damage, then strides through the locker room, loping like a bodybuilder, arms held far from his sides. He enters the bathroom and—thanks to his new, wider profile—crashes into the doorframe. We decide that his new moniker is “The Incredible Goldilocks.” He coincidentally re-emerges from the back just as the locker room is closed to the media, and heads out into the hall with us, where he puts both feet into a large rubberband to do lateral drills. Together with another member of the national media, we begin to compose imaginary leads: “All-Star Dirk Nowitzki, his ankles bound by a rubberband, scored 36 points last night as his Dallas Mavericks defeated the New Jersey Nets 112-76…”

FIRST QUARTER

Mark Cuban, seated a few rows behind the Mavericks bench, stands until the Mavs score. An annoying habit, but he doesn’t stand long. Besides, there aren’t many fans behind him—or anywhere else, for that matter. Meanwhile, the media crowd is, as my colleague stated earlier, ridiculous. The New York Times has a beatwriter and a columnist here, but left the Knicks to fend for themselves in Orlando. Bad craziness.

Two straight beautiful lob passes—Dirk to Damp for a pretty layup and Kidd to Rodrigue Beaubois for an alley-oop flush—push the Mavs’ early lead to 17-9. Another Kidd-Beaubois connection—oop of the month?—and it’s 19-11. That was beautiful. Kidd’s passing, along with some early aggressiveness shooting the ball [his first bucket is an open three], indicate that he wants to a) turn back the clock and b) stomp on his former team while stamping them into the record books. None of that should surprise.

The Nets come back, though. They’re nothing if not resilient. (Then again, given their record, I suppose they ARE nothing.) Terrence Williams gets free on a breakaway, times his steps, and rises until his eyes are damn near level with the rim, throwing it down hard and putting the Nets up three. “MR. T!!!!!,” the irrepressible Gary Sussman crows in a hardwood paroxysm. The throwdown is answered by the languid Tim Thomas, Paterson’s finest, who sticks a three.

Dirk’s passing is just…is just…it just shouldn’t be that good. I asked him after the game about his pinpoint precision. His response: “When I first got into the league, I wasn’t much of a passer, that’s for sure, but I’ve been in this system for a long time. I just know where my guys are, know who’s cutting, know when Jet’s open and needs to get the ball. I’m comfortable out there. I’ve been in this league for 12 years, so it’s been a long time.”

We’re knotted up at 28-all at the end of 1, with the Mavs shooting a torrid 70.6 percent. Well, it seems torrid at the time.

SECOND QUARTER

Sean Williams is as maddening a player as they come. The physical skills are boundless, but there seems to be some sort of a disconnect. He’s the Nate Robinson of defense. He smothers Dirk Nowitzki on the baseline, who’s eventually harassed into the turnover by a drop-down Devin double. Next time down, Williams fouls Nowitzki, crashing his hip into the seven-footer’s shoulder.

The Mavs go on a 9-0 run after Devin Harris misses the free throw on a four point play opportunity. That about sums up the Nets’ season.

The Mavericks won’t miss. I’m half expecting Mike Iuzzolino and Derek Harper to show up along with and the original NBA Jam announcer because there’s a whole lot of vintage “he’s on fire” going on right now.

Brad Davis’s mustache has 13 points on five-of-eight from the floor. Also, some guy proposes to his girlfriend during a time out. Perhaps this is because he’s shy, and doesn’t want to do it in front of a crowd.

What we have here is a slaughter. A game that was tied at the start of the quarter is a 27-point rout by the end. The Mavericks score 49 points on 90 percent shooting from the floor. Most teams don’t shoot 90 percent in pre-game warmups. This wasn’t a clinic as much as it was repudiation from a higher power. The Nets are doomed.

This sums things up pretty well, too: Bobby Simmons catches the ball on the baseline, and, if he spins away from it, he has an open path for a dunk. Instead he spins towards the baseline, and has to take an awkward three-stepback fallaway that misses badly. Terrence Williams fouls Erick Dampier, who hits both, and Lawler’s Law takes effect with time left in the third.

FOURTH QUARTER

The Mavericks don’t score until a Jason Terry free throw with 9:17 to go. Does it matter? Not really.

A few minutes later, all the photographers along the baseline leap up and start firing into the crowd across from the Nets bench. Is it Jay-Z? Kerry Kittles? The ghost of Drazen Petrovic? No. Two fans have donned paper bags (with Santa hats stapled to the tops) with “0-18″ across the front. They offer thumbs-downs to the cameras. Unless the tickets were free (which, admittedly, is a distinct possibility), I don’t get it.

A side note to the side note. Jay-Z, co-owner, not in attendance. Sorry Trenton Hassell, he prefers the theoretical future Brooklyn Nets to the current product. No offense, of course.

There is no mercy rule in the NBA, but the end is indeed merciful. The final score is 117-101, as the Nets cross the hundred-point barrier for the first time this season. A small jewel to pluck from the flaming wreckage.

POSTGAME

A Tom Barrise quote, because let’s face it, those will be rare in the future: “They just exploded on us.” Yes, yes they did.

Listening to the opposing coach following yet another Nets loss is painful. They’re careful not to insult the opposition, but in a way that makes you think how awful things must be on the other side. Rick Carlisle treads as carefully as anyone: “You’re playing the opponent, but you’re also going up against the expectations for yourself.” And, even more carefully. “The guys that they have are playing hard, and that’s a tribute to Lawrence [Frank] and Tommy. They’re gonna keep battling.” (“Also, we shot 90 F*CKING PERCENT IN THE SECOND QUARTER!!!!,” he fails to gleefully add.)

Got a chance to catch up with Drew Gooden, one of my favorite NBA personalities. Drew was talking with Beaubois and James Singleton about Europe. I asked what his favorite European city was.

“Holland,” he replied.

There’s a chance he thought I said “country”, or just wanted to be funny. Either way, it’s always fun to catch up with Drew, who added symmetry to the proceedings by noting that he lost 13 straight during his rookie season with Memphis and 19 straight with Orlando the following year. Now? After stints with Cavs, Spurs and Mavs, Drew just appreciates winning.

We can only hope these Nets will do the same soon.

But we have to be realistic. Hope is in short supply. The Nets have yet to play with a complete roster, but it’s hard to imagine that Keyon Dooling, Jarvis Hayes and Yi Jianlian will add much in terms of pure talent. Kiki Vandeweghe, cleared to take over as coach now that Barrise took the record-breaking bullet, is unlikely to have any magical gameplans. The ’99 Clippers and ’88-89 Heat had reason to celebrate last night. The ’72-73 Sixers may be popping Champagne by the end of the year. Which, for the Nets and their dwindling fanbase, can’t come soon enough.

Since Jake had a prior obligation and we both needed to try something new, we decided to Solomon (no Jones) this game and split it right down the middle. Jake would cover pregame and the first half, and I would take the second half and postgame. Of course the thought that this would be a hopeless blowout by halftime crossed our minds, but not like this. Never like this.

PREGAME

As Amar’e Stoudemire holds court in the back left corner of the visiting locker room, rookie Earl Clark minds his own business ten feet away.

I consider telling Clark that I misspelled my own name in an email earlier in the day because sympathy is always nice, but decide that it’s probably best for him to just move on.

Magic-Knicks highlights play in the background and Jarron Collins entertains the room with random interjections. Insightful too. When Patrick Ewing is shown on screen, Collins says—and get this—”Pat-rick Ew-ing!”,which in a nice bit of irony is exactly what I said to Patrick Ewing on Sunday night. Uncanny.

We can only hope that a Stanford Twins book club—co-run by the Collins and Lopez twins—is thriving in 15-20 years.

I wanted to ask Louis Amundson about almonds because they sound kind of like amunds, but he was nowhere to be found.

Now, if we were running 5′s and I was coaching this motley crew in some sort of Rock and Jock Dean Cain anniversary special, here’s what I’d do:

• Let Tip man the point and dictate flow (as he’s done so well before). Run Billie Jean King off of stagger screens for quick hitters worthy of her tennis skill set.

• Rosenbaum, who seems to be the Jewish Lex Luthor—or Lex Jewthor…I can go there—would be a good versatile 3 man. Have him lock down the other team’s top scorer. Plus, by sticking him at the 3 you avoid making him guard big men with Superman connotations (Shaq, Duh-white).

• Wade Redden and Mason can double up as enforcers, with Mase also seeing time as a backup point forward when Redden is in the game. (Note: I don’t watch hockey, so I don’t know anything about Redden. I’m assuming he’s tough because he’s a hockey player with stubble.)

• Jessica White can use her supermodel height down low. Speaking of White, there were an abnormally high number of models gallivanting, or gala-eventing, around the MSG concourse last night. Is there some sort of solidarity thing there, where all the lesser models attend the game to support a more successful supermodel sitting courtside? And if there’s a support group for that support, is there any way I can join without going through SI’s Arash Markazi?

• Anthony Michael Hall can leave detention early to come off the bench, but only if he agrees to diagram plays with Judd Nelson hovering over him. (Don’t worry Anthony Michael Hall, Emilio is there for you.)

5 Things the Suns Stunk At in the First Half (which was originally supposed to be 5 Things the Suns Did Well in the First Half Despite Giving Up 71 Points):

• Making too much contact while defending the basket. The Suns got whistled on a few separate occasions for fouls that put the Knicks on the line and stopped game flow. Even though any Suns-Knicks affair will naturally devolve into basketball’s version of two gunslingers on peyote, by committing dumb fouls the Suns allowed the home team to get settled on defense after made free throws and own the game’s tempo; illustrated by the fact that the Suns had ZERO fast break points in the first quarter—unless the score sheet is lying to me and “FB points” stands for Facebook Points, in which case nevermind.

• Rebounding: One of the principal tenets of rebounding is that you don’t just stand there and wait for the ball. You find a man and put a body on him. Alvin Gentry might want to go over this before the Cleveland game tonight. Or play Robin Lopez. How about both?

• Turnovers: Nash committed four turnovers in the first quarter and he looked kind of like the guy on skates that’s too comfortable, something that can lead to unintended carelessness. Hell, I write like that sometimes. (I had to edit that last sentence from “Hell I write that like sometimes.” Point made.)

• Not Respecting the Better Scorers: Wilson Chandler, Danilo Gallinari and David Lee are the three most potent offensive weapons in the Knicks’ starting unit because they each have discernible skills that provide the good without the bad when things are going right: Gallo bombs away from distance, reaping the benefits of teamwork and ball movement; Chandler slashes and scores, drawing defensive attention that helps others; and Lee cleans up inside, to the delight of whoever just screwed up.

Yet somehow, with Chris Duhon still trying to fully break out of a funk that’s lasted longer than the average serious relationship, neither he nor Larry Hughes, who can take the game away from the scorers with bad shots, scored one of the first 27 points. Granted, Hughes was amazing, dare I say Stocktonian, out there in the first frame, but how does that even happen? Phoenix should have clamped down on the more dangerous options and made the Knick backcourt beat them with shots. Which leads us to…

• Rotate on shooters: Watching Danilo Gallinari catch a pass outside of the three-point line, step on the line, look down, take a moment to realize he’s stepped on the line, shrug, step back behind the line, pause, and still launch an open three is unacceptable. I’d like to say it was the only time this happened, but the Knicks scored 71 points in the half, so…yeah.
SECOND HALF

Like many other NBA games—all of them, in fact—this was a tale of two halves. Unfortunately, the first half was “Guns of the Navarone,” and the second half was “The Five People You Meet In Heaven.” To call the second half “garbage time” would be an insult to both garbage and time. So, for the moment, I’m just going to pile on the Suns (who, I’m sure, led many “power rankings” going into last night, which is why I read exactly none of them.)

If I were to sum up the Suns’s difficulties in a single sentence, it would be this: They don’t know what to do when they miss. Coming into the game, their team three-point percentage was higher than 10 other teams’s FIELD GOAL percentage. They’d scored 100-plus in all 16 of their games. The offense was, in a word, rolling. So what happens against the Knicks? They turn the ball over. They miss shots. They miss defensive assignments (as my capable co-writer points out above). And in the first half they miss 18 shots and rebound three of them. Four second-chance points. FOUR. Seven seconds or mess.

Despite all of this, I had no doubt that the Suns would come out strong to start the third quarter. They’re the Suns! Sure, they gave up 71 points in the first half, and yes, they were down 13 points. Psh. The Suns make up 13-point deficits for fun. They can score 71 points in eight minutes. Steve Nash can—and occasionally does—hit three-pointers in his sleep. So of course the Suns stormed out of the locker room and scored, uh, 18 points in the third. On one play, Jared Jeffries pump-faked from the corner, then drove baseline for an easy layup. Jared Jeffries! And, to add insult to injury, it was a Chris Duhon three that finally put the Knicks up 20. That’s the same Chris Duhon who’s been shooting like Tiger Woods drives. Jack McCallum must be rolling in his grave.

Some observations from garbage time:

Robin Lopez and Alando Tucker showed more energy and spirit in the fourth quarter of a blowout than any other Sun did all night long. This shouldn’t happen. And whilst Robin and Brook Lopez (also in the house—he hopefully gives the Nets a KG-esque “ANYTHING IS POSSSSSSIIIIBBBBLLLLLEEEEE!!!!” speech before tonight’s battle for, uh, not going 0-18) are clearly a human before and after photo, I can’t for the life of me decide who is which.

There was never a point in this game where I thought “uh-oh, here come the Suns!” As a general basketball fan, this made me sad.

With 8:53 to go and the Suns trailing 103-78, Alvin Gentry went nuclear during a time out, to the point where he had to be restrained by, among others, Bill Cartwright. Not sure what call spurred it, but best guess is he wanted to get ejected and not watch the rest from the locker room. Judging from the fact that he just got the one tech, it’s likely the refs were onto him.

Darko Milicic is 24 years old. He’s in the last year of his contract. And he has about as much of a chance as playing for the Knicks as I do. I’m not sure whose cereal he pissed in, but he’s about as far removed from the rotation as a player can possibly be. Not once in this wire-to-wire blowout did he move to take off his warmups, and the halfhearted “DAR-KO” chant with a minute left only underscored his complete irrelevance. He didn’t even turn his head. Shame.

Final score? Knicks 126, Suns 99.

POSTGAME

Alvin Gentry has calmed down considerably, as his face is no longer redder than his World AIDS Day red tie. “We were outcoached, we were outplayed, we were outhustled. It’s one of those games where I just idn’t think we played real well.” Things went on in this vein for quite some time. He didn’t make excuses. And when it was all over, Sports Illustrated’s Ian Thomsen—who was relegated to the periphery for a majority of the questioning, offered condolences of sorts. “They just outplayed us,” Gentry re-re-re-reiterated. Then a moment of levity: “I never thought we were gonna go 79 and three. I really didn’t.”

Steve Nash isn’t making jokes. He emerges from the back already wrapped up in a plaid scarf and a heavy grey wool coat. He looks like someone killed his dog. His answers echo those of his coach. “We didn’t play hard tonight. We got outplayed, outhustled—we didn’t deserve to win.” Um, right. No one said you did.

I’m not hazarding any real guesses on the Summer of 2010 (A Spike Lee Joint), but Amar’e Stoudemire seems like he’d be real comfortable spending more time in New York. For a would-be max guy, he sure is talkative, regaling the assembled media with pregame talk of his return to the game, and postgame talk of—well, everything, or so it seems. Unlike many of his peers, he doesn’t have to make sure his tie is perfectly knotted before he speaks. He talks before he’s dressed, while he’s dressing, after he’s dressed. But sorry Amar’e, you guys, um, lost.

Perhaps Danilo Gallinari has faced larger crowds, but not lately. The line speaks for itself—27 points (on 10-19 shooting), 6-12 from three, 10 boards, and two emphatic blocks. The kid can play. Also, he seems to be figuring things out. “My focus is always to be as aggressive as I can. Every game is different, so sometimes it comes out more and sometimes it doesn’t, and tonight was a good night.” Someone asks him about the blocks. “It’s just being aggressive mentally. When you’re aggressive, positive things come out every time. So it’s just being aggressive.”

Leaving the World’s Most Famous through the tunnel, I pass like Odysseus between the Colossus of Lopez, obeying the siren song of cookies and popcorn and UNC vs. MSU. For tomorrow is another day.

The best things a student can do–aside from taking a class called “The History of Baseball”–is study abroad. Study abroad provides a different set of challenges and experiences that expand one’s worldview, usually without much of the stress associated with normal, everyday existence. If anything, the stress is in the adjustment.

One day you’re binge drinking because security will shut down your party by 2 a.m. without fail; the next you’re learning that a party is a marathon, not a sprint, as you stumble out of a discoteca at 7AM into the blinding glare of the morning sun. One day you’re just another student surrounded by top notch academics; the next you’re the brightest kid in the room, working on projects with kids that take weekend buses to Lisbon looking for the Portuguese equivalent of Burning Man. One day you’re watching a mascot shoot tee shirts into a crowd with a strange gun; the next you’re listening to fans bounce up down, chanting something that roughly translates to, “if you’re not bouncing with us, you’re not a real fan.”

This idea in mind, now consider Devin Harris, a student of the game. Despite his All-Star status and rapidly improving game, never before has Harris, as a pro, been the best in his given uniform. Even last season, as he celebrated Thanksgiving with 81 points in back to back games on the road, and turned crunch time into his own House of FlyingDaggers, his star was still obscured by Vince Carter’s shadow. Sure Harris was the Nets’ top performer last year. That doesn’t mean it was his team.

The reason it’s apt to compare Devin’s upcoming season to a study abroad experience is three fold: 1) It’ll be a very long time before he plays with a less talented cast of characters. Heck, he might never suit up with a group like this again. His role has been, and will be in the future, an excellent cog on very good teams. It took a year and a half but the role reversal is finally complete. 2) Never again will less be expected of the Nets from fans and pundits. The point of this year for Devin and his teammates is to grow and learn. They need to try new things and have fun trying them. 3) The knowledge and experience gleaned will need to be applied when things get a lot more serous in 2010-11.

Taking a closer look at these three talking points is revealing

Uno: Being the unquestioned leader of this 82 game trip will challenge Devin Harris in ways he’s never experienced. Not only will he have to lead the troops statistically and emotionally, he’ll need to figure out how to better cohorts not known for creating their own shots. For a point guard that’s never averaged over seven assists a game, this will push him to grow in a way that he might not have necessarily needed to before.

Pretend you’re Devin Harris for a minute. What are you thinking about? Try, How do I consistently get Brook Lopez the ball in advantageous post positions with opposing teams gunning for him? Or, How do I hit Courtney Lee with a bullet in a catch-and-shoot situation while trying to see over three guys? Even, How do I stay healthy when numerous late shot clock situations dissolve into me barreling into the lane to draw contract from 7-footers? And most importantly, How do I communicate to a young group that will need extra on-court instruction?

Communication. Muy importante.

Dos: Everything is in flux. Some people are on their way in. Some people are on their way out. Learning Russian won’t hurt. Bill Clinton wanted to build a bridge to the 21st century. Assuming the blueprints we’ve seen actually do turn into something that looks a futuristic airport terminal, Devin Harris needs to be the on-court bridge between the New Jersey Nets and the Brooklyn Nets. It won’t be easy, playing in front of empty seats and an inordinate number of reversible jerseys, but the experience needs to be worthwhile and rewarding. No quitting, no apathy, just good hard fun from a good group that, based on all reports, enjoys playing together. That starts at the top of the key with #34, the ball in his hands.

If that means becoming a team that gets buckets in transition, so be it. Run. Devin should test drive the early version of this fast break, so that when the rest of the horses arrive, he’s ready.

Tres: In conjunction with enhancing his distribution skills, Harris is going to need to score more to try and keep the Nets competitive this year. This will be no small feat with opposing defenses gunning for him. An improved jumper and more unpredictability attacking the basket will help. Moreover, improving these facets of his offensive game will make him all the more dangerous on an improved team (the Nets have oodles of cap space in 2010 and two more first rounders).

Last year Harris proved that he can adjust–he shot out of the gate for over 26 a game in November and overcame December and January’s dip in production by going for 25 per in February–and he’ll need the same kind of resiliency this year, adjusting to the way opponents defend him as the unquestioned primary option.

The bumps and lumps taken this year should only make him more efficient as he enters his prime, looking to help lead the Nets to NBA prominence, a return to the contending environment that he’s long been accustomed to.

You don’t come here for the numbers, right? You can get that sort of stuff elsewhere—the fact that Chris Duhon led all scorers with 25 points, or that the Knicks laid 65 first-half points on the Pistons, led by as much as 29, and beat them by 12 despite getting only nine points and 42 minutes out of their alleged bench.

You don’t need all that, right? Of course you don’t.

Welcome to Appleson 2008, Volume 1. The Apple part is in regular type, the son is in italics.

PREGAME

My first thought about this game—that I’m quick to share with everyone in sight—is that the Pistons are in trouble. A noon start? In NEW YORK? And this is before I even know that they’re already 0-5 on Sundays. All I know is that Rasheed Wallace and Allen Iverson would probably rather be anywhere else but an NBA locker room at 10:30 in the morning.

So right at 10:30 I walk into the Pistons locker room and discover—Rasheed Wallace and Allen Iverson.

Sheed, for his part, is plenty awake. He’s wearing a raggedy, almost-capri-cut, pair of navy blue adidas sweats with the pockets turned inside-out and a grey practice shirt and animatedly talking about the De La Hoya fight—acting out parts, backing up, fists clenched, into the bathroom door—with a select group of media. Detroit guys. Two pairs of AF1 highs, one baby blue, the other white with a black midsole, visible Air, and a red toe, sit in front of his spot.

AI is less active. He sits across the room, already in full uniform, in a white do-rag and sleeveless T. He’s watching a portable DVD player with headphones on and laughing out loud. I’m not sure what he’s watching, but the open CD case by his feet has Martin on top. He’s more or less oblivious to everyone else in the room.

In the meantime, Sheed’s poured himself a cup of tea, and sits there stirring it. Judging by his animatedness, this is not his first cup of the day. He pauses briefly from his boxing soliloquy to diss and dismiss Duke players (with a quick shot at UCLA—after all, Aaron Afflalo is just three seats away) before getting back to De La Hoya. And all of a sudden he’s back on his feet acting out the fight again.

Over on the Knicks side, Al Harrington cruises in around 10.50. He hangs his fur-lined parka in Stephon Marbury’s locker—which seems to have been co-opted for storage—and moves on to deal with tickets. James and Q Rich sit in their respective lockers and throw potential nicknames at him—James calls him “16 and 5″ for his output in one quarter. Also “Role Model”.

Following this spirited banter, James sees fit to spit an unexpected (and quite uncharacteristically profane) verse before declaring “I got freestyle for days.” No one dissents. Then, as if to prove it, he drops another directly on Anthony Roberson.

There’s lots of Knicks in the locker room, at least. James, Wilson Chandler (who’s claimed Z-Bo’s spacious corner locker), Q, Nate Robinson (injured, but doing a lengthy interview), Roberson. David Lee comes in for just a second. Chris Duhon wanders in with the newest in NBA accessories—Beats™ by Dr. Dre headphones. Half the Blazers had them last week, and a pair hang in Amir Johnson’s locker as well.

Jared Jeffries walks in—with no sign of a limp—and is immediately cornered by Jill Martin for an MSG interview. Apparently he just had X-rays. In the middle of the interview, both of them absorbed, Malik Rose fires a towel right between them. Jeffries jumps up laughing and shouting, and Nate is also supremely amused. It seems this is from some sort of ongoing escalation. Martin composes herself and resumes the interview when things settle down. Rose, unable to be the villain for long, apologizes.

Earlier in the morning Rose was working on threes. He hit three in a row from the right elbow, before Herb Williams stopped to give him pointers. It’s moments like that when I start to question my sanity.

It isn’t the weirdest thing that’s gone on this morning, though. Around 10:15, a full hour and 45 minutes before game time, most of the Pistons youngsters (and Kwame Brown) are on the court engaged in some sort of Gung Ho style calisthenics routine.

With an hour to go before the tip, the media once again surrounds Donnie Walsh, but the group is smaller. Perhaps the Exiled One’s story is fading in importance. Donnie’s being interrogated by a scruffy, leather-jacketed Marc Berman as others primarily spectate. Maybe Walsh will sign Zach Marbury just to get everyone to shut up.

–It’s a noon game at the Garden. This only means one thing: Bacon! Or at least it used to. Ham chips? No thanks. Though I’ll put one on my plate for the sake of the fallen pig. That’ll be do, pig. That’ll do.

Seriously? They’re like ham Pringles.

–#66 Haywoode Workman is workmaning the game as a referee along with #27 Dick Bavetta and #73 Ed Malloy. So let’s get this straight: A guy that used to play under a Donnie Walsh regime in Indiana is officiating a Sunday afternoon Knicks home game along with “Knick Bavetta”, in a contest played against the team that the guy’s former team is famous for brawling with. Gee, I hope this doesn’t bother any important, mild-mannered, road-weary Pistons like Richard Hamilton. I’m sure it’ll just be fine.

This is what we in the businesss like to call “foreshadowing.”

–Since it’s a matinée, all small children in attendance should be required to play “count the Knicks”, with the option of leaving out Jerome James. That’s only nine guys right there, and if you want your five-to-ten year old to make sure he/she passes through the no child left behind system, this might be a good practice. Practice, we talkin’ bout practice? Oh hey, there’s Allen Iverson. LOVE HIM. Really. [In my mind, I use an imaginary New York Rangers zamboni to spray some "it's only December" ice shavings at the AI-Billups trade haters, right though they may be.]

–Danilo Gallinari looks like a dapper bodyguard with the lights turned off.

He too, was out shooting early. Kid might have a low threshold for pain, but he’s also got a pretty jumpshot.

FIRST QUARTER

For some reason, the historical highlight video the Knicks play before introductions jumps straight from a Clyde Frazier steal and layup to the John Starks dunk on the Bulls. Twenty years of history, apparently irrelevant. Sorry Bernard King and Patrick Ewing. Kenny Walker? Who’s that?

I thought Amir Johnson was a starter for the Pistons, but apparently he’s been supplanted by Kwame Brown. Ouch. The only thing worse would be Curry telling Amir, “hey, you’re gonna come off the bench and we’ll just start with four guys.”

– The Knicks jump out to a 10-0 lead. This is reminiscent of the all-too familiar Sunday afternoon pickup game at the YMCA during which the geezers have a hard time getting their legs back, while the energetic youngsters take advantage. Often, during these tilts, the youngsters will become susceptible to overconfidence and end up losing, though the Pistons’ recent form would suggest otherwise.

– At 15-2, the Pistons are more iron than Robert Downey Jr. Meanwhile, Wilson Chandler is buckets. Talk about a building block. It sure would be swell if there was a SLAMonline reader that was Photoshop savvy enough to cobble together the “high ceiling Wilson Chandelier.”

What the Pistons really need to do is use their 20-minute timeout. They have one of those, right?

– Chris Duhon makes it 18-6 with a beautiful, fundamental up-and-under move in the low block. Can we get a Devin Harris/Chris Duhon “NY PGs” SLAM cover already? Actually, maybe these guys are more fun under the radar.

– Even though, as Ben astutely points out, they’re not getting out in transition against a team that pushes the tempo, the Pistons are doing a decent job running their sets. They just can’t get a shot to fall. Short. Long. Near. Far. Soco & Lime.

Although we’re in New York, there are reminders of old Nets everywhere. Nate Robinson is in the tunnel, pedalling the Lucious Harris Memorial exercise bike. And Jared Jeffries enters the game channeling Villanova-era Kerry Kittles, with one sock high (covering his air cast) and one low.

– David Duchovny is courtside. Were he still in character (Hank Moody) from Californication, one would assume that he’d have to have sex with the oldest-looking Knicks City Kid before getting punched in the face. (Note: please no season 2 Californication spoiler alerts, thanks.)

Being older, I tend to think the preposterously coiffed Duchovny is here to study The Knicks Files. I want to believe too, Fox.

SECOND QUARTER

– Will Bynum is called for traveling on a pretty crossover. The whistle comes from, surprise (!), Haywoode Workman. Nothing quite like a former point guard that didn’t have a crossover blowing a borderline whistle on a guy that will never get a star call in his career.

Bynum starts the quarter and immediately throws an intense press on Duhon. I like this kid already, although part of me wonders whether the Pistons keep him around just to have someone shorter than AI on the roster.

– The T-Mobile hot seat is featured on the jumbotron. Really? The T-Mobile hot seat? What did the general counsel at Budweiser have to say about this?

Iverson’s getting frustrated. He misses yet another shot and claps his hands with a wince. OK, that sounds weird. Claps his hands while wincing?

Jared Jeffries posts up Iverson with great position and still manages to commit an offensive foul. He’s one of the worst offensive players in the history of the game—D’Antoni should tell him to only look for points on putbacks when he catches the ball less than six inches from the rim. Any further out and bad things happen. And he’d be better off throwing the ball directly out of bounds than ever trying to dribble.

– Someone in our row points out that the Pistons are winless on Sunday so far this year. Damn, maybe the man/woman/being upstairs was just a big Billups fan.

The lead reaches 58-29, which is even more preposterous than Duchovny’s hair. It’s a marginally more reasonable 65-43 at the half.

THIRD QUARTER

As per usual, the starters start the second half. Except for Kwame, who’s replaced by Rodney Stuckey. Hey, it can’t hurt.

– Most of the quarter is spent mulling whether or not Jeff Van Gundy could clone himself and coach both the Pistons and the Sixers.

Apparently D’Antoni isn’t paying much attention either, as he turns to a lineup of Tim Thomas, Chandler, Lee, Jeffries and Duhon. Jake immediately dubs them “Duhon and the Tweeners.” I like it.

Tim Thomas, holding the ball on the wing and guarded by Prince, suddenly turns to launch a jumper. Prince stuffs him like he were a Thanksgiving turkey.

Stuckey catches a pass up top, where he’s guarded by Jeffries. Sheed yells “TAKE HIM, TAKE HIM!” Stuckey does, absorbs the contact, and there’s no call. Sheed’s reaction is not subtle, nor is the resulting technical.

FOURTH QUARTER

– The Pistons have missed more bunnies today than a group of young children spending Easter at a Bat Mitzvah.

With nearly 11 minutes remaining, Rip Hamilton is invited to leave the game by Dick Bavetta. No, Rip, I insist.

– Walter Herrmann gets some action in the fourth. His one handed scoop is one of the most ridiculous looking shots I’ve ever seen. When I asked him why he did that afterwards, he said, “Look at my hands, they’re big.” Good for you, boludo. Good for you.

The Pistons cut the Knick lead to 5 with 5:40 to go, and again with 4:14, the Uptempo Collapse™ in full effect, but the fact that they can’t hit a shot to save their lives winds up being a factor. How’s that for analysis?

Shockingly, there’s a montage of all those clichéd “just win” movie moments with under 4 minutes left. In the Garden? Come on, New York, you’re better than that.

Tayshaun Prince, the only Piston starter who showed up and stuck around, dunks all over Al Harrington. Filthy.

You know, I don’t even think about Eddy Curry anymore? He’s been margarinized.

ANALYSIS

The Pistons are like the A- student that doesn’t feel like studying and the Knicks are like the B- student that loves the class and learning from their new, flashy teacher who makes learning fun.

I’d agree with Jake’s sentiment, except the Pistons are more B- and the Knicks are maybe a C. Good thing I’m not a teacher.

On the Detroit side, X-factor Sheed was ineffective; Rip struggled to keep his cool; AI’s 6-18 felt like 3-18 ;Jason Maxiell and and Amir Johnson were quiet; and Kwame was benched justifiably in the second half. Only Tayshaun Prince and Aaron Afflalo were noticeably good.

Agreed. Rip shot 7-12, but getting thrown out didn’t help his cause. Alex Acker gets the lone DNP-CD for the Pistons, and I don’t even know who he is or where he came from.

For the Knicks, Chris Duhon continues to impress, and the undermanned collective understood and executed their respective roles in D’Antoni’s system (12-24 from three…good cohesion on offense…good passes in key moments…resilience shown during the biggest moments of the patented Uptempo Collapse™.)

Even so, it’s important to understand that the Pistons lost the game more than the Knicks won it, missing easy shots and letting extracurricular stuff get in the way of what could have been a big road win.

Rasheed Wallace now has a giant Egyptian backpiece to complement the tat on his arm. He also doesn’t have his own socks—I think the biggest part of longtime Piston trainer Mike Abdenour’s job is throwing ‘Sheed a fresh pair of NBA socks after every game. Does he throw them out when he gets home?

I’m gonna close with a quote because it worked for Edward Furlong in American History X. Well, it didn’t really work for him seeing that his character got shot to death in a school bathroom, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, Iverson is the last to talk. He speaks about effort, seemingly implying that some guys need to try harder. He expresses relief that it’s still December, stresses the need to leave this loss here and move on. He’s been through things like this before. “It’s just a bump in the road and we’ll get through it.”

You can’t knock the Knicks for making the moves they’ve made. But take a few moments to appreciate, in his own way, one of the men that has walked out of that door.

The beauty of the Jamal Crawford Oven (JCO) is its sheer unpredictability. It heats up randomly, like it has a mind of its own, probably because baking cookies is not a game. When the temperature rises, you can feel it palpably running through him, from shot to shot, possession to possession.

For anyone that wished modernized NBA Jam fire burned in the mecca–and there are plenty of us that grew up on John Starks–Crawford actualized that fantasy, except when he didn’t. Rhythm and blues. And then rhythm again. Deftly pulling the string on pretty pull up from ’18, but only after some unnecessary but pleasing shake-and-bake. Or maybe a sick ball fake in the lane before a pretty flip. Or a killer crossover preceding a runner off glass. Or a sweet pass to Eddy Curry because Eddy Curry was lonely. The list goes on.

Jamal Crawford–and I say this as a compliment–served as a garden variety anti-depressant to the MSG faithful, working well when the circumstances allowed, but only easing the pain some of the time. Off the court, Crawford also acted as an oven of sorts, bringing necessary warmth and comfort to a local media horde stuck in a Cold War. For many, his corner locker was consistent shelter from the storm. (Note: Not only is Crawford’s exit ironic–classy guy leaving once the turbulence is starting to lessen–it’s endemic of the times on a larger scale: how many people in this economy, finally comfortable with their job description and employer, have had to relocate simply because of business?)

Like the erratic, enjoyable oven that his volume scoring and pretty passing metaphorically define, Crawford brought a necessary positive energy to the most dour era in New York Knickerbocker history. That shouldn’t be forgotten as he heads west to help like-minded gunners form a cesspool of basketball erratica around a seven foot Latvian stork.

As the roster landscape of the Knicks continues to shift, remember the rare nights and memories that were different, when the man whose game resembles an oven cooked up the occasional mini-miracle on 34th street.

It was a night that started out with the Pistons running roughshod over the overmatched Nets—despite laudable early aggressiveness from Vince Carter and Yi Jianlian—and the fans booing the mascot and the party patrol team. It was a night that ended with a gimpy point guard stealing the show by getting to the line 24 (!) times.

It was also a night that began with vintage beauty for Allen Iverson, the newest Piston (figurative and literal). A.I. darted across the lane, slicing left to right, and flipped in a patented running layup off glass. Shortly thereafter, he nailed a mid-range step back™ and a pull-up three. He got to the line a lot, played efficient offensively, and credited his new teammates afterwards for making the game easier while also noting that he took what the defense gave.

It wasn’t all that weird, to be honest, watching Iverson do his thing in the red white and blue. His diiiiiiiiiirty cross of Eduardo Najera later in the game should be referred to as “Cruz Azul” (Blue Cross), the name of a Mexican soccer team and also the perfect description of what the man in the blue uniform did to the native Mexican.

The Pistons let up a bit in the second quarter, failing to put the game away early because of some poor bench play (Walter-Fabio-Herrmann jacking up horrible shots; Kwame throwing cake at the rim on a pair of free throws; bad passes and unforced errors, etc.) and open looks that just didn’t go down. The Nets capitalized in the second and third quarters by building on the energy that they came out of the gate with after weathering Detroit’s late first quarter run.

Carter’s passing throughout the first half was particularly impressive. He showed good chemistry with Boone, finding the young big with nice look-away passes and tossed an Eli Manning touchdown to Najera. 18 and 6 with a 7:1 A/T ratio for Vince. Anyway, the reason Vince’s passing was impressive is because he did everything he could to try and help his mates put the ball in the basket, which is something that they need. Against a solid defensive outfit like Detroit, the more careful creativity, the better. At least until Devin Harris realized that he was just plain faster than everyone. The tenacity Harris showed getting to the rim time and time again on this 38-point career night was awe-inspiring to the buzzing crowd.

Check out his second half:

11:42 — And-one; sends telepathic text message to Gary Sussman, imploring him to make a “Milwaukee’s Best” reference later–related, he laughs about the one skunky beer he drank in college and wonders if others outside of Middle America realize that Milwaukee’s Best is also known as “BEAST.”

8:36 – Makes layup; appreciates working in front of all the extra Iverson fans in attendance.

8:02 – Fouled shooting a three, nails all three freebies; appreciates the luck and vows to get to the tin more often.

5:47- Makes a technical free throw; picks up a mop and wipes Sheed’s tears off the floor.

4:26 – Makes two free throws; wonders if Coach Frank will discuss his great work ethic during the post-game press conference, most specifically the importance of working hard all the time, not just when you’re trying to bust out of a slump.

0:55 – Makes seven footer to atone for recent missed shots and turnover; uses a hand signal to remind his cousin, Aaron, to Netflix him “Atonement”.

0:19 – Converts layup while being fouled; misses the and-one free throw; thinks better of inventing a dance about sealing envelopes, but grabs the carom and goes back to the line.

0:18 – Nets two free throws; begins to appreciate the win.

0:12 – Splits a pair; ponders the merit of 20 as a whole number in contrast to 21.

0:00 – Gets X-Ray on ankle he sprained earlier in the half; for real, it looked awful when it happened, like he was going to be out for months. Good thing he toughed it out, huh?

Notes

– A.I., Rip, Prince, Rasheed and Amir start for Detroit. There’s no need to explain to anybody why this is fantastic.

– Jay-Z is sitting next to the trainer, Tim Walsh. His sunglasses are so ridiculous that he can actually see the sun inside of a building notorious for being allergic to light and noise.

– The Chelsea—yes that Chelsea—u-18 soccer team is sitting next to the media section. They’re in town for a tournament. The coaches marvel at the height of the basketball players and the pop culture that comes whizzing at them from the Jumbotron. They also engage in Thunderstix. The next Didier Drogba is banging a thunderstix together. Culture shock, indeed.

– The back of Vince’s head and the back of Jarvis Hayes’ head are third cousins. It’s disorienting, especially when Jarvis launchs an ill-advised shot. I’m just saying.

– Nice ball fake from Yi before wetting a jumper. Yi came out strong. Good for him.

– At one point in the first quarter, Lawrence Frank is rolling with a Brook Lopez, Mo Ager, Jarvis Hayes, Keyon Dooling, Eduardo Najera quintet. The operative word is “stunning”.

–ATTENTION NETS FANS: YOU NEED TO GET TO THE IZOD CENTER THROUGH NEW JERSEY TRANSIT NOW. DON’T GO TO PORT AUTHORITY. YOU NEED TO TAKE A TRAIN FROM PENN STATION. IT MIGHT SEEM LIKE A HASSLE, BUT THE SECACUS TRAIN STATION WHERE YOU TRANFSER IS IMMACULATE. AND IF YOU GET AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE ON YOUR CELL PHONE ABOUT AN EXPIRING CAR WARRANTY WHEN YOU DON’T EVEN OWN A CAR, DON’T WORRY, IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE.

Four years ago, I stood in line for seven and a half hours in Gambier, Ohio waiting to cast a vote in a Presidential election. My little college on top of a hill surrounded by cornfields became a national news story because it took many of us the equivalent of an entire work day to let our political voices be heard. It was my first experience voting. It was harrowing and it set a ridiculous precedent.

During my graduation a year and a half later, Senator John Kerry, the man most of us stood in line to support, started his commencement speech at Kenyon College by saying the following:

Class of 2006 — fellow survivors of November 2, 2004. I’m happy to be here at your beautiful school, which had my admiration long before that night when the country wondered whether I would win — and whether you would vote. Your Web site has a profile of a very smart math major in the class of 2006. Joe Neilson. He said that once, after a statistics course here, he realized “the probability of any event in our lives is about zero.” “I probably spent a week,” Joe said, “annoying my friends by saying: “What are the odds?” Well Joe, what were the odds that we’d be linked by those long hours – not that I keep track – 560 days ago? Like everyone that night, I admired the tenacity of Kenyon students. But what you did went far beyond tenacity.

What’s cool about that, other than the fact that the kid he referenced was my roommate for two years, is that our fight was acknowledged by the man we fought for. It was the second straight Presidential race fraught with doubt that lingered long past Election Day. What stung so much the following morning in ‘04—the only sunny funeral I’ve ever felt like I was a part of—was that we realized we couldn’t get what we so desperately wanted after truly sacrificing for the cause. The fact that it kind of seemed stolen only made the pain run deeper.

This time, I walked into a voting center and voted for Barack Obama in under a minute, knowing full well that most projections had him winning in a landslide. It was surreal. There was no line. Despite not getting anything back in the mail, I was on the roll. Walk in. Don’t stand in line. Pull a few levers. Walk out. It happened so fast and I felt so disoriented that I forced small talk with some older ladies, pointing to my purple (official color of Kenyon and, apparently, LRG) “I Survived Elections 2004” tee shirt. Voting? As easy as pie. Who woulda thunk it? I’ve had a tougher time eating a bagel.

As I listen to the jubilant chants echoing through my neighborhood, I’m still strangely sedated right now. I’m happy that the man I wanted to be President is going to be President, but I’m more keenly aware of how historic a night this is. It’s almost like I’m trying to flash forward fifty years in my mind to think about how I’ll tell my grandchildren about this. When you witness history, and you realize you’re witnessing history, it changes the experience. I guess this is because it isn’t history in the present tense.

As much as this night will have a tremendous impact on my life, there’s a part of me that is more interested in watching the immediate effect Obama’s victory has on others. I simply want to watch how happy this change makes the people around me, be they strangers, family, friends or the crying faces on television. I’ll have four–and hopefully eight–years, to cherish what I hope Barack Obama can accomplish. Right now, I just want to appreciate the giant step America took tonight.

Because this is a basketball website, we’ll move on to some day-old notes from a game I attended, the result of which mirrored the lopsided victory of America’s new President-Elect.

Kings-Sixers:

Pre-game:

–I spend a good chunk of my pre-game time watching Bobby Brown play one on one against Kings assistant coach, Randy Brown. Why? I’m not sure. Even without playing offense, the Bulls’ former defensive specialist gets the better of the duel, jamming his elbow into his obscure, goateed counterpart on fadeaway attempts and doing his best to revive his once noted reputation as a ball-hawking pest. RB even has tattoos on his legs, which I’m pretty sure weren’t there back in his Chi-town days. This is mind-boggling. I wonder if this leg ink is a relatively new staple, something RB did to keep up with the crazy kids these days. Regardless, given what I saw from Bobby Brown, I hope RB plays defense next time out wearing his championship rings. Bling some sense into the fool that got his dunk-attempt sent back while trying to turn Marreese Speights into a poster during a blowout. It’s called a jump stop, Bobby.

–Shelden Williams and Kenny Thomas have a second-cousins thing going on and rookie Jason Thompson looks like Ryan Gomes, even though nobody told him until I did after the game.

–The incredibly poor turnout is understandable, I guess: it’s the Monday before the biggest day of the year, against a crappy team, with the town recovering from an Eagles’ Sunday and their punch-drunk hangover from the Phillies’ World Series victory still lingering. The 10,100 attendance figure published at the end of the night reinforces the reality that, today at least, few care about the Sixers.

First Quarter

–The Sixers try and establish Elton Brand, a wise move given his size and power advantages over Mikki Moore. On the first possession, Brand misses a high percentage baby-hook from the left block and gets to the line after penetration that followed a pick-and-pop with Andre Miller.

–Good, opportunistic second chance work by the Sixers (Iggy, EB, TY). It’s 9-6 after Brand splits a pair.

–There’s an entire Jason Thompson section here to the support local South Jersey (Rider Univ.) product. Literally, they comprise about 5% of the crowd—I did the math—and they’re all sitting together, so when they make noise, we all hear it.

–The Sixers open up a 21-12 lead behind Miller (nice look to Brand for a dunk) and Thaddeus Young, who shows off his improved jumper from the top of the key.

–Kevin Martin is impressive early, starting off 4-6 on a mix of jumpers and quick slashes to the basket. He makes a point stop the Philly run by getting to the line after being given a second chance, post-brick.

–Lou Williams crosses Bobby Jackson up badly and scores. Ooooh. The Sixers finish the quarter up 35-23, thanks to some bench-tastic-ness from Lou, Reggie Evans and Willie Green, each performing as a positive, pre-conceived stereotype of himself.

Second Quarter

–Jason Thompson is talking defense with the refs at the start of the quarter. He looks attentive and ready to learn. His jumper is nice and he’s active on the boards. His second jumper in a row cuts the lead to 40-27. His fan section goes predictably nuts when they win free hot dogs.

–Young Republican Spencer Hawes drills a three.

–Fun fact: Along with Randy Brown, Shareef Abdur-Rahim and Chuck Person are assistant coaches for the Kings. I bring this up because, while the Kings may suck, at least they’re the deepest team, one through eighteen, in the league.

–The Kings are just out and out sucking. Beno Udrih couldn’t guard me, and the bigs show no support off of the penetration he allows; they’re making dumb mistakes—turning the ball over after the Sixers miss bunnies; and they can’t keep the Sixers’ bigs off the boards. And if I’m reading Kevin Martin right, he’s pissed, either at his subpar supporting cast or his coach. Speaking of Martin, he’s a wonderful scorer, but surrounded with such an uninspiring cast of characters, the offense seems way too predictable, even when Kings score. When Martin gets his, it seems out of necessity, same for John Salmons. There’s very little continuity, in-the-moment spontaneity, and a whole lot of ISO-metrics, for lack of better phrasing. (I combined this note from two rants I scribbled down, one in the second quarter and one in the third quarter.)

–Thaddeus Young is really good. He helps the Sixers open up a 59-42 lead, wetting jumpers and gliding through the lane unimpeded for a fast-break lay-up.

–A blindingly quick five point sequence from Lou Williams—a sparkling drive followed by a canned three off of a Speights steal—puts the Sixers up 20 at the break.

–The Kings finish the first half with one offensive rebound.

Third Quarter

–I get it, the Kings are young team without their starting Center (Brad Miller), finishing off a tough four game road trip to start the season against probably the best team they’ve faced all season. Still, take some pride in your job and play some defense. This isn’t a back-to-back. I don’t want to hear or watch this, “Disney on Ice rented out Arco and we just want to go home” BS. For the love of defense, rotate on a jumpshooter!

FourthQuarter

–Kareem Rush and Donyell Marshall come off of screens and vote for Barack Obama. They also nail 6-7 treys to push the lead to forty, mostly because they want the game to mirror the election.

–I ride the elevator up with a few people, including Spike Lee. Spike’s head is down. I don’t bother him because I’m pretty sure bothering Spike Lee at MSG is like messing with the Pope during Mass.

–The black plastic prong on the right end of my fork does a Shaun Livingston impression when I stab into a decent piece of baked chicken.

–Discussion centers on what the Knicks’ starting lineup theme song should be, as I contend that “Stronger” is too played out to get another year in rotation. Lang suggests “Swagger Like Us.” I counter that, given the team in discussion, it probably wouldn’t be wise to use that song in a literal sense.

–After Michael Beasley daps with the assistant coaches as the warm-ups wind down, he briefly stares into the depth of the crowd. He’s arrived.

–Jamal Crawford, perhaps buoyed from the opportunity to borrow Lang’s pen in the locker room, gives a brief speech to the crowd.

–Lang points out astutely the game storyline that nobody’s thought of: the potential revenge of Marcus Banks, who used to play for Mike D’Antoni.

–Who knew the game came with free Q-Tip pre-game and halftime concerts? I would have never been able to guess that; the dude would have to walk all the way from his courtside seat to center court. That’s like four feet! Really though, as a Tribe loyalist and someone whose brother is still scheduled to act in an Indie film with Tip, I’ve got nothing but love for him, even though the “Go NY” performance is corny. At its conclusion, I get my Phife on and remind Khalid that Starks got ejected.

–It turns out the Knicks have selected Jeezy’s “Put On” as their pre-game music of choice. Neither Lang nor I recognize it, though I know I’ve heard it a few times. Maybe the most uninspired hip hop hit since…it’s like I can feel this generation gap suddenly shifting.

First Quarter

–Beasley scores on a pretty spin to start things off. JC responds. Shortly thereafter, Crawford drains a three to put the ‘Bockers up 5-2. He’s on pace for a 160. Literally. When he hits another jumper—a deep 22-footer—over Marion 25 seconds later, he’s on pace for 140. When somebody else (Zach Randolph) is able to take—and make—one, the Knicks go up 9-3. Lang notes that anybody betting on the over/under should have taken the over. He’s right.

–Lang jokes about how “tough” this ubiquitous Chalmers/Haslem two man game is going to be this year. This occurs shortly after Z-Bo passes to a cameraman. At least DWade is buckets early on. Though we may have laughed about a repeated play featuring the two least offensively inclined members of the Heat starting lineup, Spoelstra establishing Haslem early may not have been the worst idea: he finished with 23 and 10 on an efficiency-is-that-new-kind-of-statistical-crack 10-13 from the floor.

–A JC three puts the Knicks up 12-7. He’s on pace for 120. Literally. The Jamal Crawford Oven has finished preheating.

–Marion ties it at 14 to cap a 7-2 run that featured some poor interior rebounding by the NYK starting unit.

–Dwyane Wade is creating now, too. The game is getting back and forth, with little D (surprise, surprise!) being played and some all-too-apparent sloppiness.

–Khalid compares Jamal Crawford’s need to shake and bake unnecessarily when nobody’s guarding him to the way a regular personal needs to blink. Involuntary? Check. Movement? Check.

–Danillo Gallinari enters and matches up with…Shaun Livingston? He bricks his first NBA jumper, partly because he had too much time to think about it. The MULBERRRY STREET, STAND UP! era will have to wait.

–Wilson Chandler, the green grass to playing time’s funky fertilizer, throws down a FEROCIOUS follow-up dunk, then Wade gets sloppy and turns it over, which leads to a Nate Rob lay-up. 34-31, Knicks.

–Good aggression inside from Z-Bo and some solid work on the boards combined with the return of the Jamal Crawford Oven keys a 10-1 run, and the ‘Bockers take a 47-40 lead.

–Z-Bo casually nails a somewhat—and I say “somewhat” because it wasn’t that early in the shot clock—ill-advised 21 footer. After the swish, Flava Flav blares over the Garden loudspeaker with his trademark, “YEAHHHHHHHHHHH BOYYYEEEEEEEEEE!” I turn to Khalid and note that “YEAHHHHH BOYYYYEEEEEEEE” is exactly what must have run through Randolph’s head when he launched that. Khalid collapses over on to the media section table in laughter. I’m funny. Go me.

–The Knicks build the bulge to 15 by the break. Quentin Richardson is seen and heard from. Good for him.

Halftime

–We chat with former SLAM copy editor Sam Blake Hoffstetter about various things. SBH is the certified genius that got Lang and Khalid to be a part of VH1’s I Love the New Millennium and is working on a new celeb- reality show that sounds fantastic.

Second Half

–Lang bounces. Khalid and I split our attention in the media room between plasmas showing the final innings of the World Series and the Knick game. Per the game we attended, a few more things to note:

–The patented Up-Tempo Collapse (TM Russ Bengtson) made an impressive showing, not surprisingly, under new Up-Tempo coach, Mike D’Antoni. As Daequan Cook impersonated Reggie Miller and buried three after three as the game wound down, it appeared that the Knicks might find an incredible way to ruin their opening act.

–The Knicks gave up 40 points in the fourth quarter and Miami still didn’t sniff 50 percent from the floor for the game. Meanwhile, the Knicks shot decently from the floor, the arc and the stripe. There will be days when the shots won’t be falling for the ‘Bockers, and those days will be long. On the other side of the coin, the Heat should be okay when they get good shooting nights from their big three, who shot a combined 18-50.

–Kudos to D’Antoni for not playing Steph or Curry. If my experience not getting burn in college has taught me anything, it’s that this invaluable and unavoidable time spent on the bench together should lead to a budding clique friendship between Steph, Curry and Jerome James. I smell a reality show…Somebody call VH1! Do we know anybody there? YES!

–Kudos to every Knick that got major minutes for playing solid basketball.

Thoughts I Didn’t Get to from Cleveland-Boston:

–Early first: With Mo Williams and Z working a pick and pop early in the quarter, LeBron flashed down low looking for an easy dunk. Z’s errant pass sailed out of bounds off of LeBron’s finger tips, but it was a great idea. That’s the stuff the Cavs need to do on a consistent basis to give their offense the best chance at success: move and find the gaps in the defense when someone other than LeBron is handling the ball.

–Mid first: His shot off early, LeBron moves without the ball and Z finds him for a sick oop. Less touches with Mo Williams on board—especially during this early season feeling out period— and LeBron does the right thing. Eye contact between Z and LeBron on opening night comes from five years of playing together. What are the odds that LeBron knows the capital of Lithuania? Even?

—Second: Lorenzen Wright nails a baseline jumper. Re-wind Tivo. Apparently this occurred because J.J. Hickson missed the bus (literally), and was subsequently benched. This is disappointing because after hearing Cub Buenning’s rave Hickson review, I’m eager to see what the kid can do.

–Fourth: Make your free-throws.

An Applesauce PSA:

I already mentioned the Indie that my brother is slated to do with Q-Tip, not to mention some other really talented actors in Justin Bartha and Jesse Eisenberg. Related, both of my bro’s first two Indies (Teeth and Beautiful Ohio) should be available at your local Blockbuster. As such, please make it a Blockbuster Applesauce night. And if you’re in NYC, check out baby bro in the off-broadway revival of Streamers, a gripping play about race and sexuality that also features J.D. Williams (Bodie from “The Wire”) and Ato Essandoh (Titembay from Garden State).

It’s almost November: The NBA, drama and good films…what more could you possibly ask for?

“Kevin Garnett is absolutely f*cking insane. But you already knew that. There were two moments last night when KG was oozing hardwood psycho like a metaphorical serial rapist. Once, as the ball was brought up the floor he did this sort of slide/trance/dance thing which I can’t describe any better than that–maybe he actually slipped, but I doubt it–and when the Cavs were in-bounding the ball, sideline out of bounds towards the end of the game, he was sneaking around like a dude that had a knife in his back pocket. The man is a fire-breathing dragon of intense ridiculousness that would eat your screaming baby alive if you left it in the paint by accident.” – What I wrote following game 1 of the ECSF.

You know that feeling you get when one of those perfect moments hits you? Maybe you’re on a long, desolate stretch of highway and you’re feeling a late night caffeine kick; you know you’re alone, so you start testing the limits of your ride, open it up a little bit. Maybe you’re minding your own business on the subway and a beautiful girl walks in and stands right next to you, right after one of those cheesy love songs pops up on your iPod shuffle. You smile sheepishly, flush with all the emotions that encapsulate a tender everyday moment that you’ll never get back and probably won’t even remember ten minutes later. Maybe you’ve just lined an opposite field single in your geriatric league softball game for old people. You’re feeling the reverberation of the bat just as you begin to watch the ball sail into right field. You went with the pitch, you smart bastard. A happy smirk crosses your face as you start to run to first base.

These moments epitomize the adrenaline-building mini-gifts that remind us of the pure, simple bliss life can provide. Last year, Kevin Garnett’s entire season seemed to embody one of these moments. Except it was prolonged–instead of interrupted bursts, the lingering echo of a primal scream–and the basketball world’s reminder of a long forgotten emerald heaven.

As I watched Tuesday night’s Celtics-Knicks preseason snoozer, the thing that stuck—other than Eddie HOF (House On Fire) and Clyde Frazier noting “Pruitt, do it” —was KG’s frame of mind. His acid tongue and gladiator leadership were in mid season form—in October. He was teaching, preaching, and naturally emitting the next level emotional stuff that defines him. Patrick O’Bryant was, to say the least, stiffening, so KG used his words and steely glare to play chiropractor. Class was in session. Leon Powe and Big Baby Davis, eight days from some newly minted green bling, gazed into his eyes with a wonderment that belied the amount of time they’d already spent learning from him. Mike Breen gushed, as he is wont to do when he’s watching the polar opposite of the Knicks, and the point was made. This dude is the consummate teammate. If the pre-season is any indication, the Cs aren’t going anywhere.

While clichés usually annoy and serve, as much than anything else, to piss off the knowledge sports fan, there was one last season that never really got old: the Celtics’ resurgence occurred primarily because Kevin Garnett changed the atmosphere. He’s elemental like water and wind.

SASHA
Ladies, ladies, for three pointer to swish,
we need to love each other. Or perhaps
we make four point play like good
olive oil; you know, with extra virgin?

Jeri-Faye
I don’t know about that.

Sasha
Okay, I teach you game. Machine in the middle.

Richelle
Sounds euro-tastic!

Jeri-Faye
I’m down.

They walk off, arm in arm in arm.

INT – House – Later

Phil Jackson rummages through his freezer. His wife, Jeannie, is in the other room, analyzing game film.

PHIL
Honey, where’s the hibiscus sorbet?

JEANNIE (O.S)
I threw it at Lamar Odom. He came over earlier and
started bugging me about how he needed to start.

PHIL
Where was I?

JEANNIE (O.S)
You were prank calling Jerry Sloan.

PHIL
Thanks for not bothering me. But really,
you had to throw the hibiscus sorbet? There
wasn’t a stray Klondike bar lying around?

JEANNIE (O.S)
I threw the first thing I grabbed.
I’ll be more considerate next time.

INT — Therapist’s Office — Later

Mitch Kupcheck sits across from older man with white hair and gigantic eyebrows. He looks up to the ceiling, trying to process what he’s just heard.

MITCH KUPCHECK
You’re not going to tell me that I traded Caron Butler
for Kwame Brown because I hate my mother.

THERAPIST
Unless you give me a better reason.

KUPCHECK
You want the truth.

THERAPIST
Of course.

KUPCHECK
Caron was too gully for Kobe.

THERAPIST
I don’t follow.

KUPCHECK
One of the biggest criticisms about Kobe is that
he manufactures his street-cred due to his upper-class
upbringing in Italy and suburban Philly. Well, Caron has
overcome a rough upbringing, to the point that he even
denounces certain things–gullyness that most teenagers
would aspire to mock–all while maintaining his hood appeal.
Kobe couldn’t take it. He has a gullyness quotient. If a
certain player exceeds it, he’s gone.

THERAPIST
That’s the biggest crock of–

KUPCHECK
Look at our roster!

THERAPIST
But you’re doing such a good job.

KUPCHECK
I stumbled into Pau Gasol because I
had to get rid of Javaris Crittendon.

THERAPIST
Really, Crittendon was a trouble maker?

KUPCHECK
I’m not sure. I couldn’t take the chance.

THERAPIST
Well that hardly seems fair to him. Still, you’ve
gotta focus on the good you’ve done.

KUPCHECK
I can’t. Kobe always gets in my way.

THERAPIST
How so?

KUPCHECK
Every day at two o’clock I have what I call my
“Kupcheck cupcake”. It’s my designated dessert
of the day. Kobe doesn’t want me eating unhealthy foods,
so he calls me everyday at two to talk about potential ways
to improve the team. Yesterday, I hadn’t even taken the saran
wrap off of my key lime pie when my pocket started vibrating.

THERAPIST
Why does he care about what you eat?

KUPCHECK
He thinks if I eat too much junk food, it will alter
my decision making. He’s a real health nut.

THERAPIST
Didn’t he just call you from Taco Bell?
Anyway…I think I was right.

KUPCHECK
What do you mean?

THERAPIST
I think your problems are rooted in your
mom. It’s just that Kobe is your mother.

KUPCHECK
Jesus…It makes so much sense.

THERAPIST
I’m going to introduce a new exercise for you.
Since you’re a fan of pun’ing off of your name
—”Kupcheck cupcake” and all—I think we should
introduce a short daily exercise during which you
stare in a mirror and tell yourself that you’re doing
well in your life.

KUPCHECK
Okay. What should we call it?

THERAPIST
Kupcheck gut-check.

KUPCHECK
My lyrical side loves it!

THERAPIST
Keep your head up, Mitch. This town
appreciates what you’re doing.

KUPCHECK
Thanks, Doc.

THERAPIST
Oh, and Mitch.

KUPCHECK
Yeah?

THERAPIST
I think you have Kobe wrong.

KUPCHECK
How so?

THERAPIST
Regardless of what you’ve heard, true inner
gullyness doesn’t always come from where
you’re from; it’s a state of mind. The truth is that
Kobe is the most cold-blooded assassin you know.
He’s probably just playing you.

Kupcheck is at the door when he hears this. He freezes. He starts to sweat a little bit.

Basketball is a game of flow and movement. It’s a strange combination of dance and science. Point guards, especially good point guards, lead this dance/science, creating the initial actions that often dictate long sequences of play, and the corresponding reactions. Tony Parker is one of these good—very, very good, in fact—point guards.

He might not have the savvy of Nash, the slobbering-at-the-feet-of-his-game-like-he’s-a-basketball-Buddha respect of Kidd, the bull doggedness of D-Will, or the explosive omnipotence of CP3, but he’s right there with those guys at the top of the point guard class, and he’s gotten better grades in winning than any of them.

Despite the fact that his digits would indicate that he took his 3-ball—along with the judiciousness that comes with taking said 3’s—and broke it, it’s a relatively small sample size, so we won’t really dwell. What we will dwell on is that in game 3 of the Conference Semis, with his team staring down a 0-2 hole, he dropped 31 and 11, putting a damper on CP3 and his team’s Honeybuzz. That win began the 4 out of 5 resurgence that would be the highlight of his squad’s season, approximately a year after TP was named Finals MVP.

Parker, and the blistering speed that is part and parcel of his penetration’s dominance, is a vital cog in the NBA’s most consistently well-oiled machine. That’s not to be taken lightly. His ability to put the ball in the basket at a 50 percent clip sets the efficient tone for the rest of his squad. He ignites an underrated fast break when the Spurs do run and, as mentioned above, initiates flow sequences beneficial to the rest of his teammates, be they Tim Duncan in the post or Bruce Bowen releasing a corner three ball.

What would be the point of a muderous robot destroyer if it didn’t have the speed to chase you down in the back of an alley and ram its physical violence down your throat as it matter-of-factly beat the crap out of you.

(Apropos of nothing relating to the rest of this post, he and his wife, Mexican-American desperate housewife, Eva Longoria, are reportedly expecting their first child, Speedy Gonzalez Longoria Parker, this spring.)

And while the squad may be aging, it’s an odd year and people are sleeping on the Spurs again. Would it be out of the realm of possiblity for TP to pick up a second NBA Finals MVP trophy?

The Cavs had just been dismantled by the Celtics in Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals and LeBron James sat in front of his locker, staring straight ahead, understandably pissed off. Before the game, LeBron had been publicly regurgitating what I’m 99% sure were some Weezy lyrics–quite loudly, in fact–either to himself in a fit of blissful obliviousness, or indirectly to a mostly blind horde of assembled media members that were slowly starting to congregate near his designated personal space.
Actually, with so many folks crowding Bron’s lyrical zone, those two options weren’t mutually exclusive. While it was possible that the lyrical mood (The Weeze?) may have just struck him, it seemed that the exercise combined a) an attempt at pumping himself up and b) sending a message to said media horde. Since I don’t indulge in song-songy rappers that don’t have much to say–no offense to Lil’ Wayne, every soccer mom’s favorite glorified hedonist–I can’t tell you what song LeBron was rapping word for word. I seem to vaguely recall strawberries, Henny and a 50 percent chance of fellatio, but don’t quote me on that. Regardless, the context seemed fitting enough: something about rising above the haters, or another equally played out cultural theme.

Anyway, LeBron James succeeded at pumping himself and his teammates up, as the Cavs jumped out to a 21-11 lead, before losing the rest of the game 78-52, which is is kind of like landing a solid body blow before getting shot in the face.

As memory serves, after the game it was me, Lebron, Boobie Gibson, and LeBron’s bag of Mickey D’s in the locker room. Some of the other Cavs may have still been lurking, or they may have cleared out by then. I don’t remember and it’s not really important. LeBron and Boobie had been talking about something when I slowly approached and meekly tried to interrupt–stupid me–in search of a quote for a story I was working on.

LeBron told me I could ask him the question in the press conference just like everyone else, something I was already aware of. In doing so, he made a legitimate point. I countered by saying my question had nothing to do with the game and I didn’t want to waste the time of a hundred or so other people. Even though LeBron was probably in the right, as his biographer‘s illegitimate test tube baby, I expected more.

Having had my SLAM card pulled by none other than the guy that we consistently vouch for lit a mini-rage inside of me, unjustifiable as it may have been. Deep down, I knew I could have gotten the quote at shoot-around had I chosen to attend instead grabbing brunch at IHOP–which would have been stupid because IHOP is awesome–but in the moment that didn’t matter.

All of this is a long winded way of saying that the collective silent anger in that room was so f*cking palpable; it’s hard to believe that steroids weren’t involved. I was mad because I thought I had been wronged (kind of), but by my own standards I knew I f*cked up. And LeBron was mad because he was facing an 0-2 hole, and having already missed a golden opportunity by shooting 2-18 in Game 1, may have realized that he already f*cked up as well. And hot damn, if it wasn’t for a clutch P.J. Brown elbow jumper and some missed open 3 balls that Boobie Gibson might have converted had he played, the Cavs STILL WOULD HAVE PULLED IT OFF.

Will they turn their anger into vengeance? Read on.

BURNING QUESTIONS

Will Sasha Pavlovic come out of his tree house and play?

As much as I want Sasha to succeed, waiting for him is kind of like being a fourteen year old that worries too much about minimal acne: you shouldn’t waste so much time waiting for a breakout that probably won’t come.

Can the Cavs succeed in the postseason by throwing two 4′s out there that won’t be expected to score more than a basket or two per game?

Trick question. The true answer lies in whether or not rookie J.J. Hickson is a player. And LeBron’s been compensating for his teammates’ offensive shortcomings for years; though Joe Smith’s solid midrange game and veteran presence will be missed, it’s not that big of deal.

STOP WASTING EVERYBODY’S TIME WITH IRRELEVANT SPECULATION THAT WON’T BE SOLVED FOR ANOTHER TWO YEARS. DAN GILBERT, YOU CAN MAKE THAT CHECK OUT TO CASH. THANKS, SUB PRIME LOAN HOMIE!

What’s your opinion on the Mo Williams trade?

I’m not completely sold on it yet for one simple reason: the way the Cavs operate. LeBron dominates possession of the ball, as he should, and he’s usually looking to create for others. Often, Mo Williams makes plays for himself. While LBJ and MW will no doubt make each other better in certain situations, it’s worrisome to think about Williams potentially jacking up shots and trying to create for himself when the offense gets stagnant. What I hope to see is a wrinkle, preferably wrinkles, on Mike Brown’s dry erase clipboard that can take advantage of LeBron’s off-the-ball presence and Williams’ ability to create for himself. Be they various screen/roll combos, or sets that stack the floor in a way that marginalizes the opposing defense, the Cavs need to start excelling on both ends. The defensive bedrock is there, now they need to maximize the cohesion of their singular parts to become a more complete team. Or not. It almost worked for them last year.

Anything else the Cavs should be doing to win more games?

Yeah, spread the floor. They’ve got four bona fide shooters (midrange and from distance) in Boobie, Wally World, Delonte West and Mo Williams. Spacing the floor gives LBJ and MW maneuverability for penetration and can open up the low post for Z to operate, not to mention providing long caroms–off of long jumpers–beneficial to the positioning of their active, scrappy bigs.

Is LeBron the best player in the league?

Don’t care. We have a list for that shit. I guess he’s either 1 or 1a right now, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that he needs to get a go-to post move, improve his late game free throw shooting and bring some of that Beijing defense to the regular season.

PREDICTION:

If the Cavs play as well as they can in a seemingly inevitable rematch with the Celtics, LeBron might be rapping something of true quality before he wins his first championship. Then again, if the Cavs can’t put it together, the mainstream media will again start impersonating fire sirens, imploring LeBron to come to the BK or the Mecca because apparently New York solves everything; the stock market, traffic and kids in striped shirts picking up STDs after downing $10 mixed drinks are all prime examples.

New York: many think it’d solve everything. Even when there’s not that much wrong to begin with.

–Now that Shaq has all but declared when he’ll begin his second career as a cop, how many kids do you think, two years from now, will begin doing little things (loitering, jaywalking, drinking out of an open container on the street) on purpose in order to try and get arrested by Officer Shaq? My guess is there will be a lot of high school kids (not the obscenely rich kind profiled on the CW) that fit the bill.

–For those of you who weren’t aware, during the Olympic Gold Medal Game Juan Carlos Navarro’s runner was actually Usain Bolt.

–Can’t wait ’till Mario Chalmers brings the ball up the court and initiates the Heat offense by passing to the left. If you get thrown out of the rookie transition program, you are hereby guilty until proven innocent, and all weed/bimbo jokes are fair play.

–I’m stunned that Donnie Walsh didn’t pull the trigger on the Zach Randolph to Memphis deal. Does he not know math? It’s addition by subtraction. In the words of Big Boi, “negative one minus negative one is nothing” (-1 – (-1) =0) Which in case you forgot how to count, Donnie, is more than negative one (0 > -1). Even if he figured both Marko and Darko were a “negative one,” he’d still win out on the deal as negative one minus negative one minus negative one equals one (-1 – (-1) – (-1) = 1), thus one is greater than negative one (1 > -1). For the sake of argument, I’m going to assert that Zach Randolph is -1 and Marko and Darko are merely -.5 each, and that would’ve worked out for the Knicks, too (-1 – (-.5) – (-.5) = 0) (0 > -1). I’m pretty sure that math works out – I double-checked it on an online calculator – but if it doesn’t, it’s not my strong suit.

–Speaking of the Knicks, when I went to see my best friend from high school recently, he said he found something in his grad school dorm that I could have. He built it up, and sounded genuinely happy to have found this for me. I got all excited. He gave me a nylon Starbury long sleeved jacket. I nearly killed him.

For real, though, I hope Starbeezy lands in Miami so that we can find out in the third season of Burn Notice that it was Steph who actually framed Michael Westen.

–A commenter mentioned this a little while back when the story first surfaced, but does LeBron realize he’s not really on Facebook? Like, he’s on Facebook, but he’s not really on Facebook. People that are on Facebook know what I’m talking about. Also: Facebook.

–Please pour out some Old Speckled Hen for the now retired Pat Garrity.

–Got a text message from a good friend on Sunday night. He was on an Amtrak Acela train (ticket price: the Charlotte Bobcats payroll) going from DC to NYC. Sitting in front of him was Dikembe Mutombo. Two things are strange about this:

1) An acela train seems way too fast for Dikembe. How could he possibly even see what he could wag a finger at (cows grazing, Joe Biden’s house, Baltimore, etc.) out of the window.
2) He was sitting in coach. Now, I understand that Dikembe Mutombo is an incredibly generous person that would rather donate than spend money on himself, but if you’re 7 feet tall and you have the extra dollars to spend, how can you possibly ride in coach? If his back acts up next year, we’ll know why.

*Best friends* Vince and Antawn have long been inseparable, or so they say. When they balled together at the University of North Carolina, Antawn was the good one, the award-collecting leader that always seemed to be striving to reach his potential. (Note: A Billy Packer drool cup still sits next to the Wooden and Naismith awards in his trophy case.) Unlike good guy Antawn, Vince was seen somewhat as the bad boy that didn’t appear to be doing everything he could to dominate.

When the two scorers were traded for each other on draft day ’98, it appeared that Golden State was getting the angel with the white smile that glistened – his game light and easily enjoyed without stress like a watery American beer – and Toronto was getting the unfulfilled potential, dark and rich with hops like a Chimay rouge; the raw skills one might sell their soul for. (Note: I think the need to use a beer analogy to liven up a discussion of Antawn Jamison only serves to reinforce how easy it is to overlook him.)

When the dynamic duo began their divergent NBA odysseys, it was Antawn who was barely noticed, but still ‘a nice player’ on some forgettable Golden State teams. (Riddle: If a guy averages 25 a game in Golden State in 2001, does the national media make a sound? Answer: No.) While Antawn toiled in relative obscurity, Vince blew up, aviation-loving fans and media alike swinging from his jock. Because really, what’s some inside/out, incredibly solid earth shit when you can kiss the rim? So Antawn went about his November-April business and Vince leaped tall buildings in his signature kicks in May, earning acclaim, adulation and even some short-lived next-Jordan talk .

As Vince was beginning to be seen as a malcontent for not reaching that potential in Toronto, Antawn was traded to Dallas and won the sixth man of the year award, admirably sacrificing himself for the greater good, though any true shine he could have received was dulled by a playoff exit at the hands of the Kings. He began his tenure in DC the following season and has been plying his trade in the nation’s capital ever since.

Jamison has continued to be a pillar of consistent offensive productivity for the Wizards. Tawn’s probably the only guy that you forget averaged a double double last season. Despite all that he’s given, Jamison continues to be overshadowed (contract size, media attention, etc) by a blogger that currently functions on one knee and a blossoming two way stud with a penchant for straw-munching.

During Tawn’s steady, overlooked time in DC thus far, Vince’s rep has grown and shrunk like a highly traded stock.

Maybe it’s about time we just let the controversial whipping boy do his thing in relative anonymity and focus some prolonged attention, full Wizards squad or not, on the nice guy. A little role reversal never hurt anybody.

So I asked some of our most tenured columnists (five guys for whom I have almost too much respect) to give their thoughts on what SLAMonline represents. They made the site what it is today, and I wanted their guidance for future writers. Quickly and honestly, they obliged.

If you’re like me, you’ll bookmark this page, braze it into your brain’s deepest crevice, and return if you ever forget. This is what SLAMonline was, is, and forever will be. But don’t expect to unearth any secrets here. If you’ve hung around long enough, you’ll find the following is as intuitive as tying your shoe. – Ryne Nelson

—–

Dear Newbie,

You want to write for the Basketball Bible’s website. That’s cool. Here are a few things to keep in mind; consider them commandments to obey in order for you to reach your full potential and help us keep getting better…

I. Your job is to entertain and inform. If you don’t have anything new to say, or a unique way to say something obvious, or a story to tell, or something to report from a game that’s interesting, you’re wasting our time and lowering our standard. Please focus on how true that is, and not on how harsh it sounds.

II. Don’t rush. Read your shit aloud. There’s always a better, more concise way to say what you’re getting at. Never slough off a first draft that you haven’t read out loud and send it in. In fact, pretty much everything you write should be vetted by yourself at least 3-4 times minimum. You might still make a mistake, but at least it won’t be due to laziness.

III. Understand our unique residence in the basketball internets community and strive to improve it. Aside from Mutoni, who reps the blogosphere to the fullest, most of us are caught somewhere in the indefinable Columnist/Writer/Reporter continuum. This gives us access and freedoms that should be taken advantage of. While the best technical basketball bloggers in the world (Marcel, BDL, Fanhouse, T-Hoop, the best independent team blogs, etc.) are great at what they do because they thrive on mixing coherence with speed and precision, if you’re writing for us (Game Notes aside), that shouldn’t be your M.O. Let your words marinate. This is especially important because you’re trying to develop a rapport with our readers. The harder you work, the more they’ll appreciate you. Some of them habitually dole-out compliments like bacon-wrapped scallops at weddings; while that’s mighty swell of them, don’t let the praise completely go to your head.

V. If you have a blog that you run through mental brick walls for, and you’re guesting for us, know that we deserve the same respect you give your personal blog. Chances are Lang was doing The Links when you were still in high school, before blogs came to prominence and Gilbert took zaniness to new levels.

VI. If you have yet another list in mind, go find a gun. Proceed to use gun on self.

VII. Writing for the website is no different than writing for the magazine. Just because Bill Simmons can go on for 20,000 words doesn’t mean you should. And please don’t write like you’re a 13-year-old girl sending a text message. You’re writing for the best basketball magazine in the world, not your BFF Jill; capital letters and proper punctuation good, internet abbreviations and careless spelling bad. If you use stats, double-check them. If you have an idea that you think is new, Google it to make sure it actually is a new idea. Good writing is good writing, whether it’s words on a page or pixels on a monitor. Respect the SLAM brand.

VIII. Write what you know and what you want to write, not what you think we would want someone to write. We already have people in-house who can write at length (and well) on LeBron and Kobe. Unless you have a brilliant new angle or some sort of amazing access, focus on telling us something we don’t already know.

IX. Know SLAM history and respect it. To that end, love the game. And spread our love for the game.

X. Don’t ask what SLAMonline can do for you; ask what you can do for SLAMonline. (Really, we can’t stress enough how important that is.)

I was going to write a short story about Tayshaun Prince being captured and taken into a cave to be initiated by the Skin and Bones society–Mick Jagger, Calista Flockhart, Snoop Dogg, the cast of America’s Next Top Model, the Olsen twins, etc. He was going to be praised for his all around selflessness (if shots were food…), and the ceremony was going to conclude with some mighty words from the next President of the United States, Barack Obama, a SK&B member himself. Then, somewhere between writing my first paragraph and Russ mentioning “Unnamed Fetus Palin”, I realized that a) I might not have the time to give the piece the creative juice it deserved and b) it would be ironically thin on actual basketball discussion.

So here goes something that’s been bothering me: I have absolutely no idea which member of the Detroit Pistons is their most valuable player. I suppose it doesn’t matter, and that’s kind of the point, but I’m miffed that I can’t make a decision, or even feel compelled to lean one way. (I voted Chauncey highest on my top 50 list but definitely feel some regret about that. In fact, all four Pistons that I put on my list were within in 10 or so spots of one another.)

Conventional wisdom and legend tells us it’s Chauncey, he of the sneaker contract and the big shots. However, it’s funny to think about his rep and realize that his nickname has served to protect him somewhat unjustly from criticism deserved for poor recent postseason play. Also worth noting: he’s been the floor general on a team that hasn’t responded to its coach annually when it mattered most. That warrants true examination.

The underdog in us says it’s Rip, the guy who logs the miles going around the screens that tire out the opposing defense, which helps D-troit clamp down and do their thing on the other end. The underdog says don’t underestimate the guy that takes good shots and practices the lost art that keeps the other team honest. But Rip isn’t a bulldog on the other end of the floor quite like Detroit’s other mainstays. And if defense is the hallmark by which half of a player is judged, then you have the counter argument right there.

The sensationalist in us might be blinded by a deep love for Sheed, so much so that his incredible talents cloud our viewpoints. But he’s too volatile and simply doesn’t perform well enough consistently.

That leaves us with Prince, the dude that looks like he was born to a pterodactyl octopus and a malnourished refugee. Since the Pistons aren’t truly built for the playoffs anymore–prove us wrong and we won’t judge you so–it’s imperative to look at which guys matter most during the course of the regular season that defines their success. To me, those two are Hamilton and Prince. Prince’s disruptive length and willingness to do the proverbial little things provide a microcosm of what the Pistons are. His two-way productivity and on-court selflessness blend the rest of Detroit’s bigger egos rather seamlessly and help the day to day of their easy 82 game ride.

Yet he still flies under the radar (even here, on this list, he isn’t getting his proper due). Just remember next time he unfurls that ugly 3-ball from the corner thanks to some transition hustle–after spending 23 seconds gobbling up the other team’s best player–that he deserves more of your respect. Just because he could temporarily house a honeydew while sucking in his man-cave doesn’t mean he isn’t a complete player.

Prince might have been invited to Beijing because Team USA’s frontcourt was thin, but as always is the case with the guy that logs the most minutes on a perennial Eastern conference contender, the whole picture is more important than the frame.

With Beverly Hills 90210 set to return tonight on the CW and the season still approximately two months away, this only seemed right.

A few notes before you read this:

–It’s kind of written in screenwriting format, as much as the software SLAMonline uses would allow. That’s why the dialogue is centered. I could be wrong, but I think that makes something this long easier to read, though some of the centering makes the longer speeches look funny.

–I’m not an expert on the first version of the show because I was 10 when it was huge. If you want something that’s a straight parody, I’m sure you can find that in the next Bill Simmons mailbag. That said, in order to bring some old-school 90210 perspective to future episodes along with some balance and true Laker purple and gold, I’ve enlisted our own Myles Brown to help out with whatever this becomes.

–This is not intended to disparage anybody. Any true resemblance to the real life people this is based on is mostly coincidence.

–The pilot is here mostly to introduce you to the characters. Don’t expect the world to explode. Without further adieu…

INT – Locker Room Bathroom – Afternoon

Sasha Vujacic (a.k.a Machine) is wearing nothing but jeans and a pair of shower sandals as he rubs a dense, exfoliating moisturizer into his coarse stubble. As he exfoliates, he gargles some Listerine and spits it back into the sink. He walks over to one of the nearby shower units and ducks his face underneath some high powered water pressure. The green moisturizer completely gone, he takes a warm towel and wipes his face off while walking back to the sink. He looks into the mirror and smiles.

SASHA VUJACIC
Like faded jeans, Machine wash dry.

Kobe Bryant enters wearing only a towel and a sly smirk. He walks up next to the sink next to Vujacic and flexes.

KOBE BRYANT
Machine, you been working on that English?

SASHA
Machine always working on everything. Nature
of Machine.

KOBE
(flexing, then stretching out his wingspan)
Okay, define “lithe”.

SASHA
Thing on tree that change colors then falls
to ground, but not in Los Angeles.

KOBE
I said “lithe”, not “leaf”.

SASHA
Machine trying to learn more fancy English words,
like “flummox”, but unknown fancy English words flummox Machine.

KOBE
(smiling)
If anyone asks, it means “Kobe”.

Kobe begins trimming his nose hairs.

SASHA
Cinnamons?

KOBE
What?

SASHA
Cinnamons for “lithe”?

Kobe looks at him quizzically and heads out of the room, eyeballing him suspiciously the entire way.

Phil Jackson meditates quietly, eyes closed, his sublime zen-based peace maintained. We momentarily see different sorts of triangles–isosceles, right, an equilateral cross section of Rosario Dawson silver pantie fabric–float peacefully across a white screen that represents his mind’s blank slate. Jax hums peacefully. An eight year old Bill Bradley speech on the negative effect of hedge fund tax cuts on the middle class provides a quiet, harmless background. Suddenly, the door is thrown open and the peace disrupted. A maniacal Jack Nicholson makes a beeline for the yoga mat Jax is sitting on.

JACK
Listen, coach, I know you’re good at managing egos,
so I figured you could help me out.

PHIL
Sure.

JACK
Well, I saw this new movie, The Dark Knight, and
I think the dead Ledger kid out-acted me.

PHIL
Apples and oranges, Jack. Two completely different
takes on one character. Nothing to beat yourself up over.
Can I interest you in a piping hot cup of chamomile tea or
a copy of Scared Hoops?

JACK
No, thanks. Coach, I just can’t get rid of these jealous pangs.

PHIL
You would never have been able to play the part
that way back in the day anyway.

JACK
You think so?

PHIL
I do. It was a different era. And honestly, you’re part
of the better film.

JACK
Really?

PHIL
Yeah, of course. The script was trying to get way too smart
for its own good. And what the hell is the deal with Christian
Bale? “This is my batman suit voice, it’s so different from my
regular voice, you can totally tell I’m overacting.” And what about
having Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine in the same movie.
Casting department of redundancy department, if you ask me.

JACK
(animated)
Yeah! Yeah! And what about Maggie Gyllenhall?

PHIL
(shouting into the kitchen)
Honey, what’d you say about Maggie Gyllenhall?

JEANNIE (O.S)
It looked like Tyrone Hill’s face threw up on a white guy.

JACK
Thanks, Coach. I’m starting to feel feel better.
I just wish could have made a pencil disappear.

PHIL
Overrated. I’ve made pencils disappear.

JACK
Oh yeah?

PHIL
Brad Sellers, Jud Buchler, Brian Cook…

JACK
Touche.

Phil smiles. They hug and he walks Jack to the door.

INT — Walton House — Evening

Luke Walton sits at the kitchen table, fiddling with the red straw in his green tea. He looks tense and bothered. His father walks in from the spacious den, wearing a trademark tye-dye t-shirt and a “world’s coolest dad” hat. He sees his son looking despondent and sits down next to him.

BILL WALTON
What’s wrong, son?

LUKE WALTON
Dad, you ever been in love and didn’t know
what to do about it?

BILL
Luke, when I was a freshman at UCLA, I had
a hard time telling Coach Wooden about my
true feelings for him. But I gathered up my
courage, and we had a nice talk. To this day,
Coach Wooden remains the love of my life.

LUKE
I’m talking about a girl, pops.

BILL
Women never made me nervous, son, only Wooden.

LUKE
Wait, what?

BILL
Son, all you have to do is tell a woman how
WONDERFUL she looks; or talk about how
she’s THE GREATEST cook in the world.
Platitudes and shoes are the key to any
woman’s heart. Luckily, I found a woman
that could deftly slip into the hemp-crafted
Teva Sandals that define my soul.

LUKE
I just don’t know.

BILL
Who’s the lucky lady, sport?

LUKE
Lisa.

BILL
What’s so intimidating about this Lisa?

LUKE
Well, she’s a better player than me; she’s won
more trophies than me; she gets more credit
for her looks than me; and I think she’s cooler than
me. She might even be taller than me, but we
haven’t stood back to back yet.

BILL
Son, you’re a Walton. Genetically engineered by
the game’s best passing big man, a loving mother and
absurdly high levels of THC, you’re THE GREATEST,
MOST UNIQUE, FANTASTICALLY TREMENDOUS,
young man on the face of the earth. I think this
“Lisa” should be worrying about impressing you.

LUKE
You think?

BILL
You’re a team player with an LA Gear contract! Cooler
than you? I think not!

Last year I helped out SLAM and Nike by contributing to a site called HoopsFuture. One of the pieces I wrote for them came on the heels of LeBron’s 50 point outing at the Garden. Since that website no longer exists, I figured it’d be fun to rerun this piece here. Enjoy.

It’s hard to imagine, but LeBron James was once a lightening rod for criticism. Many of these criticisms (accepted a gift…jumpshot needed work) clouded the inevitable reality that he was destined for great things. Still, people look at him too often solely to gawk at the genius of his physical gifts. The razor-sharp mental acuity is just as tangibly brilliant–and equally important.

I was at LeBron’s virtuoso performance against the Knicks this Wednesday night at the Garden. After the King dropped 50, I felt like Mozart had played a riveting concerto, but only after smashing a piano over my head. I was impressed not because he scored 50 but because he scored 48 after scoring 2 in the first quarter. And the mental preparation and execution behind what he did while scoring those 2 measly points were just as impressive as anything else he did that night, save the absurd, buzzer-beating fadeaway from just in front of half-court.

“Typical start for James, rarely looking for his offense,” Clyde Frazier said on the MSG broadcast. Let’s check LeBron’s impact while scoring those 2 points, because you sure won’t see these plays on the highlight reels.

–Standing almost parallel to the sideline, LeBron causally whips a behind the back bounce pass to Anderson Varejao down low. Varejao find Devin Brown in the corner for 3. (Hockey assist)

–Draws a double in the post and feeds a cutting Varejao–foul drawn. (Assist impact)

–A few possessions without touches for LeBron result in the Knicks taking the lead.

–He hits a step-back jumper. Smooth as butter. Cavs take the lead back and he’s keeping the defense honest.

–Doubles Eddy Curry in the post, literally engulfs his attempted pass out to the perimeter, and finds Delonte West with a sick feed in transition; West hits the pull-up. (Assist)

–Throws a lob pass to Ben Wallace, who is fouled trying to convert. This is mostly made possible by the fact that the defense is gearing up to stop him and barely cares about Wallace. Implausibly, Wallace hits both free throws. (Assist impact)

–Accurately throws a complex, over-head left-handed pass that finds Wallace underneath for what would seem like an easy deuce. He makes the hardest things look simple. Big Ben, instead of taking the easy two or the free throws, kicks it out to a wide open Delonte West. West drills the 3. (Hockey assist…)

–Makes the easy pass to Devin Brown. Brown hits a 3. (Assist)

–Grabs a rebound, pushes the ball ahead. The lazy Knicks transition defense heads towards the middle of the floor to prevent his attack. He makes the easy play and finds West for another 3, all of this coming after the Knicks called timeout. (Assist)

–Last possession of the first quarter: He sizes up Jared Jeffries, but slips–only to recover–and miss an incredibly tough fade-away.

Count ‘em: 4 actual assists, 2 hockey assists, 3 plays with assist-impact and two assists that weren’t granted because of missed shots. 11 possessions in 12 minutes: he changed the game without scoring. It was the prelude to the show that everyone’s been talking about.

After the game I asked LeBron about these hockey assists and other types of assists. “I attract so many double teams my teammates know they’re gonna get shots on the backside,” he said. “It opened things up in the second half.” That’s the key: Everything that people are raving about wasn’t truly possible without the setup.

LeBron isn’t going to go down in history as an all-time great (the best…TBD) because of what he does for himself. He’s going to go down in history as an all time great because of what he does for others.

There’s a popular saying that goes something like, “It’s not what you do that people remember you by. It is how you made them feel.”

I was watching a SportsCenter special last Monday afternoon. I think it was about Brett Favre. I’m not sure though, because I wasn’t paying complete attention. The thing about Brett Favre, and I think Brett Favre would agree that this is, in fact, the thing about Brett Favre is this: Brett Favre.

If I could have been any more succinct about the thing about Brett Favre being Brett Favre, I would have. (Note: Given the media climate of today, I would be remiss if I didn’t also bring up Brett Favre, but don’t let that sway you from fully understanding what I’m trying to get at here, which is Brett Favre.) I wasn’t even mad at everything relating to the SportsCenter special being Brett Favre, or something relating to Brett Favre, despite a lack of actual news surrounding Brett Favre–at least not at first. Now, when I was in Elementary school, Brett Favre played for the Green Bay Packers. That sentence is the beginning of my lazy segue to the next section of this piece, the part filled with real importance. None of which relates to Brett Favre for a while, which I guess makes it inherently less important than Brett Favre, but I digress.

**

When I was in 5th grade, I fell in love with the game of basketball. I had only started playing the sport a year earlier, but I fell hard for it. On the playground of West Nyack Elementary school, a 6th grader named Nate Satterfield brought “Rucker Jr.” to recess. Nate would dribble the ball between his legs super fast, and he would take on ten kids at a time, weaving around us like we were human traffic cones set in motion. Nate even talked a better game than he played. His “you’re momma’s so fat” verbal dexterity was only superseded in coolness by his ability to spit saliva lasers out of a gap in his teeth.

When Nate and his class graduated elementary school in June of ’94–a month that I like to refer to as the “Vernon Maxwell, O.J. Simpson and E-Honda spectacular”–the playground suddenly belonged to my friends and I. Talent-wise, a big pond shrunk and I became one of the bigger fish, if not the biggest. This was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened to my game. Before we graduated the next year, we all had to vote on superlatives for our classmates to receive. I won “Best Basketball Player”. Compounding things, I won a shooting contest that spring that led to me receiving a gold medal at graduation. I thought I was kind of a big deal. I wasn’t.

I had a friend in my 6th grade class named Pierre, who had transferred in from neighboring Bardonia Elementary school. Pierre would say funny things like, “if you love that basketball so much, why don’t you marry it?”, and at my birthday party that spring, he farted so prolifically in our guest room that we had to evacuate for a good 15 minutes after coating the room with a thick mist of orange scent. I think four simultaneous games of Magic the Gathering had to be halted.

The one thing Pierre tried to remind me was that, though I had a modicum of talent for the game of basketball, I wasn’t all that I thought I was. He once told me something along the lines of, “You think you’re slick but Ryan Grant would whip your ass.” Grant had been a classmate of Pierre’s at Bardonia, and like Keyser Soze in a film that came out right around then, something of a myth on our playground.

***
In 7th grade, I was cut from my middle school team. I didn’t see it as a big deal. The team was loaded and I hadn’t grown any. I used the available free time to play for a PAL team from a nearby town. I was the only white kid on the team and embraced a spot up shooter role with the zeal of a kid that didn’t realize playing into a stereotype wouldn’t get him anywhere down the road. The next year, with Satterfield and host of other talented kids gone, Grant inherited a Felix V. Festa Middle School (South) team that wasn’t nearly as good as the stacked one from the year before.

Despite maintaining the appearance of a confused 11 year old, my jumper earned me a spot on the team. We were the adolescent equivalent of those late 80′s Bulls teams, the ones that featured a supporting cast that just couldn’t keep up with MJ. We even had an young over-matched coach with an Irish name (Sullivan, if I remember correctly). I think we finished around .500, but memories are foggy. All that noted, I can safely say I know what it’s like to be a white Brad Sellers.

Not only was Ryan Grant ‘s game light years ahead of the rest of us, his work ethic appeared to already be that of an incredibly motivated college kid. When we would drop down for pushups, 11 moody young teens would struggle through the process, looking across at each other, forlorn grimaces covering our faces as our elbows jutted out in opposite directions. Grant would ask for more pushups, his mint Reebok Questions, AI cornrows and steely glare almost daring one of us to bring half as much intensity and heart as he did.

I’m not sure if I had more than a conversation or two with him during that season, or if, even today, he has any idea who the hell I am. I guess that’s what happens to shy, metal-mouthed youngsters: they excel at fading into the background until they emerge with something of value to contribute to society later in life.

Grant went to play football at Don Bosco prep the following year while I, perhaps due to a rep gained for being too tentative with a shot I should have had more confidence in, was cut from the Freshman team at Clarkstown South. The next year Grant returned to South, presumably to try and feed an insatiable hoops jones, and I disappeared to private school, in search of teachers that cared more and a chance to develop my game at my own rate. Grant’s sophomore year on the court at South paled in comparison to his exploits as a running back and he returned to Bosco for his last two years and hit the gridiron hard. USA Today named him New Jersey’s prep player of the year after his senior season. He landed at Norte Dame and shared a backfield with Julius Jones, a glitzier running back that started out with the Dallas Cowboys and now plays for the Seattle Seahawks.

****

To most that were unaware, Grant’s path to the NFL success seems like it was some sort of fairy tale. It wasn’t, even though it reads like one. Grant signed as an undrafted free agent with the Giants and played on the practice squad in ’05. Before the ’06 season began a gruesome injury sustained at a night club nearly ended his career.

During the off-season in early 2006, someone bumped into Grant at the nightclub. When he wobbled and reached back to brace himself, his left hand went through Champagne glasses resting on the table.Grant cut an artery, a tendon and the ulnar nerve in his arm. Blood poured out of the wound, requiring emergency surgery. Grant plays down the ordeal now, but he acknowledged Wednesday that doctors were initially unsure if he would regain the use of his left hand. The Giants placed Grant on injured reserve for the 2006 season. He took real-estate classes and the volunteer coaching job at Queen of Peace. His players gawked at the scars, the lines running up and down a left arm so damaged they remember Grant could barely form his hand into a fist.

He was traded to the Packers for a sixth round pick before last season, emerging as Green Bay’s featured back after being a third stringer for most of the first half of the season.

For every athlete that squanders his talent, there’s one ready to maximize his potential and become the best he can be. I never doubted Grant would make it to the NFL because I knew he’d work just that hard–after all, I’d seen the raw intensity he generated as a youngster–and watching him in college showed that, while he didn’t boast the raw talent that Jones did, he could more than make up for it in other ways. (Note: the sports media world seems to be the “achievement inverse” of this: for every writer/journalist out there working his tail off to be the best they can be, there’s some hackass tossing their integrity into a metaphorical garbage can, spouting off bullshit for a major network or newspaper.)

All the hard work paid off, too. Grant, who set a franchise record rushing for 201 yards and 3 touchdowns against the Seahawks in the playoffs last year, signed a 4 year deal worth that could be worth up to 30 million in incentives last Monday. Given everything he’s been through, an incentive-laden contract is only fitting. Why settle for a middling amount that will reward you no matter what, when you can strive to make more if you achieve more and continue to push yourself?

As I watched the SportsCenter Brett Favre special the day after ESPN began to report that Grant would sign the extension, I didn’t catch a single mention of the deal. Now, I might have dozed off in the middle of an in-segment Wrangler commercial, but you wouldn’t be able to blame me either way. The young kid that helped Favre and co. resuscitate their dormant running game was about to sign a new deal and it was barely mentioned–IF AT ALL–during special all about Favre and the Packers. (Note: as Jets fan since the days of Browning Nagle, I’m seriously considering changing my allegiance to the Packers given all that’s gone down.)

*****

The reason my experience watching Ryan Grant grow as an athlete is important is because, on some level, it kick-started the next phases of my life. Watching what it took for him to pursue a dream playing a game that wasn’t even his best sport effectively crushed my NBA aspirations.

It’s okay though, I still made into the building. Every once in a while I get to watch a guy like Grant, who’s made the most out of what he’s been given.

–Been thinking about the Nets a lot lately. With this ridiculous surplus of bigs and the all too apparent reality that this team will struggle for buckets, I’m thinking the Nets need to petition the league to allow them to play 6 on 5, with 4 bigs on the floor at the same time. That, or they let them play a version of basketball/lacrosse where the defender (Sean Williams/Josh Boone/Najera) only plays defense and the offensive player (Lopez/Yi/ Anderson) joins the offense once the ball passes half court.

–The Nets 6 man unit idea reminds of a joke that my buddy JR, a Knick fan, came up with about the before last year, the essence of which was that the Knicks needed to run a two ball offense so Jamal Crawford could always be shooting.

–You know your team may have problems putting the ball in the hoop when you’re even casually wondering if Darius Miles could really help. A Darius Miles resurrection would be a performance akin to Travolta’s renaissance in Pulp Fiction.

–And how hard would it be for the Nets to pry Craig Smith away from Minnesota? Kevin McHale is renowned for giving things away.

–Praying that everybody’s favorite blogger Rod Benson makes it to the league this season. While Toronto (a seemingly inevitable JO injury) and Phoenix (Nash makes everyone better, + Benson and Shaq in the same locker room) would both be great fits, why not the Knicks? Hear me out: say they buy out Randolph and Starbury. Add Rod Benson to an already good group of guys and would it even matter how many games they won? No sulking, no bitching, just hard work at an entertaining fast pace exhibited by guys that the fans could relate to. Rod would be in there like swim wear, and swim wear would in on 5th Avenue. Of course, Donnie Walsh and Mike D’Antoni would have to fully convince James Dolan to let RB write whatever he wants and not worry about the Garden’s past tradition of insular bullsh*t and petty squabbling, but whatever; just seeing the newfound smiles on the faces of the guys that cover the team would be a breath of fresh awesomeness.

–Jorge Garbajosa: Que te disfrutes europa, tio.

–I was on the subway the other day and I saw this hefty chick. I couldn’t understand why I was staring at her for so long trying to figure out who she was until I realized she was sorority girl that Kyle “boinked” in Road Trip. And no, I didn’t ask her for her giant leopard print underwear.

–If the Spurs win their biannual chip this year, Roger Mason Jr’s championship ring is going to come with an engraving that reads: “medicated version of Stephen Jackson six years later.”

–Most of ya’ll have all written off Adam Morrison. I haven’t. The Bobcats are so playing two ball offense next year.

–On the Portland Trailblazers’ official website, when you click on “the team”, little player icons pop up across the top of the screen and you can click on one of the icons to view his stats and bio. The problem is, I want to click on all of them. Except for Raef Lafrentz, but still. What a fun, deep team.

–Most surprising “it will be actually be worth the money signing”: Diop back to the Mavs.

–Anybody who wants to start an upstream/fishing website should totally call it Salmonline.com

–More interesting than the ESPY’s: The SP’s, awards handed out by SLAM Managing Editor, Susan Price.

–It’s funny the Rockets dealt Donte Greene in the Artest deal. When I went to the Nike Camp in ’06, I came away enamored with Greene’s game, even comparing him to a taller, more erratic Mac. Given the fact that he’s worn three hats before ever setting foot on NBA hardwood, let me be the first to say that Greene should only be allowed a step and a half before getting whistled for walking. He needs a break from all that traveling (mental and physical).

–Boki and Nenad walk into a Moscow bar. Bartender says he just ran out of Bud Light. Boki says quit with the metaphors. They drink and tip well before leaving.

–Boki and Nenad walk into a snackbar. They fill up on unhealthy snacks and then still go out to dinner because they’re playing ball in Russia and they can get away with it.

My fortieth birthday is creeping up and I feel like I’m headed for an inevitable midlife crisis. Fortunately, a guy in my position, consumed day and night by his job, doesn’t have the time to go screw up his personal life by buying a Bentley (yikes, remember when those were popular?) or by cheating on his wife with one of those revamped do-it-all sex robots that combine vigorous, unrelenting physical pleasure with new-age virtual technology to incapacitate the user for a week after kind-of-coitus, or KOC.

The flip side to this is that, as much as I’d rather screw up at work rather than harm my family or myself, if I bungle this trade-deadline situation, I’m done. Finished. I’m the only one that can axe myself, but if an entire capital city wants your throat, what’s the point? See, when I bought the NBA’s Madrid Majestad five years ago during the great Euro expansion of 2017 using a fortune I made investing in an Ipod charger that fueled electric cars, the team struggled so much initially that the franchise almost moved to Munich.

Commissioner Silver hadn’t come up with any finances for the team’s necessary improvements: cheerleaders that could roll r’s and get lispy at team functions, extra lawyers to draft the stringent “no mullets courtside” litigation that would keep us culturally relevant and, of course, complimentary Serrano ham in every refurbished luxury box. We needed to compete with Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Athens and Berlin. Only the London Shot-Clockers lagged behind with us, but that was due in part to their insistence on hiring Luol Deng as a player-coach when they started, then following that move by signing players susceptible to getting caught by British tabloids. I’ll never forget the picture that ran of a smiling transvestite licking Shepherd’s Pie off of a shirtless Big Baby Davis.

(For the record, Big Baby said he didn’t even know her/him, but she/he begged him to pose for the pic at a party. Regardless, the fact that it ended up on her Myspace page—so 2006!—rendered his attempt at an explanation pointless. Basketball hasn’t really caught on in England, anyway; you can see the large swaths of empty seats that season ticket holders vacate during weeks when perennial Premier League powerhouses Fulham and Tottenham play at home.)

Eventually, a few shrewd moves gave us a veteran team that was one big move away for competing for the coveted Larry O’Brien trophy. I rolled the dice on borderline Hall-of-Famer OJ Mayo, convincing him to waive his no trade clause from San Antonio because mayonnaise is so popular in Spain the advertising dollars would single-handedly leave him with enough money to retire comfortably with. I’ll never forget that conversation.

“You mean they eat it on salad?” he said.

“If you consider salad ‘iceberg lettuce with egg yolks on top’, then yes.”

“I thought the food was supposed to be sprank.”

(“Sprank” is a slang term meaning “awesome” that came about during MTV’s wildly popular hit show, Oak-ey doke, that chronicled seven teenagers in Oakland for their high school years from 2014-2018. For those that missed it, I feel compelled to note that one of the kids claimed to be Tupac Shakur’s bastard son, only to be destroyed in a rap battle by the doctor that did the DNA test. And they said hip hop died when Weezy took over!)

“The two biggest misconceptions about Spain,” I told OJ, “are that the food is incredible and most of the women are beautiful.”

“Wifey will love to hear the second part.”

“Yeah, she will. I still can’t believe you pulled Rihanna.”

He winked at me.

After acquiring OJ, we lured Ricky Rubio away from Barcelona and beat the tampering charges, narrowly avoiding a full-scale civil war. We teamed them with seven time all-star Mason Plumlee, the dude that fully killed the “Duke players don’t succeed at the next level” myth, LaQuinton Ross, and BJ Mullens. Sensational rookie Mister Allen Iverson leads a bench mob that includes Lance Stephenson (returning to form after an incident involving a bottle rocket a few years ago messed up some metatarsals), William Buford, the ageless Rudy Gay and Kyle Singler.

(Sidenote: Having Mister’s pops at all of the games has been great. That dude has gotten even more awesome with age. There’s nothing quite like hearing Allen Iverson ask a courtside server for a caña–beer in a wine glass for those who don’t know. By the way, it was great to go visit Freud’s house with AI in the offseason; during the lecture about Siggy’s teachings, he’d compulsively blurt out things Larry Brown had said to him back in the day.)

Anyway, we need one more piece and the press, accustomed to Real Madrid getting whatever they want, won’t stop running pictures of me with a chicken’s head on the top of my body. They’re so used to teams that are always contending for trophies, they uniformly forget that this is, in theory at least, an egalitarian league that doesn’t favor specific franchises. I’ve tried to explain to them how a salary cap works, but they seem to reject the mere notion of it. The press conference from a few years ago when Kevin Durant had to explain to the Rome press that he wasn’t “sold” to the Gladiators still haunts me–and that’s not even my team.

Throw in our hectic travel schedules and we’re actually at a slight disadvantage, though I must give Commissioner Silver credit for shortening the regular season to 60 games while consolidating all transatlantic road trips by sending each Euro team to play one division per trip and scheduling games (always sold out) in neutral sites that no longer have NBA teams like Memphis, Atlanta, Milwaukee, Sacramento and Oklahoma City. The real masterstroke, however, was forcing division rivals play regular season games against each other during their bi-annual trips across the pond.

Not only did these moves help promote the game globally—25,000 packed an Amsterdam venue to watch Brooklyn and New York fight it out for the division crown on the last day of the regular season last year, fitting because the Dutch “discovered” New York—they also gave the league the time and space needed to run the “Globe Cup”: a tournament that rewards 2.5 million Euros to every player on the winning team and awards the top pick in the upcoming draft to the winning team. These recent changes have upped the ante to the point that the mid-season loafing that was so prevalent during the 90′s and the turn of the century has all but vanished.

We’ve reaped the cross-cultural benefits as well. The Paris Towers’ fans came up with a great chant when Bavetta blew a call in a playoff game against Philly a few years back: Dick de mer, a combination of his first name and the French way of saying “f*ck your mom”. Bavetta had no idea. All he cared about were his 80 year old legs beating Nicolas Sarkozy in a foot race during the following year’s all-star game.

As I sit here, mulling the offer from the Wizards for the Kemp kid that will either make me or break me, I think back to his father. The kid is two years shy of thirty, he’s as explosive as they come (surprise!) and he’s one of the top rebounders in the league. His mid-range game is rock solid, too. He’s everything we need. Yet, I’m wondering if Washington’s GM, Eric Snow, knows something I don’t. Yeah, the news of a few out of wedlock children–you couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried–and the subsequent protests from conservative fans has pushed DC to put him on the block, but there’s gotta be more to it. 2 number 1′s, my mid-level exception and the artist formerly known as Monta Ellis seems real cheap for such a prodigious talent in his prime.

[fax comes through via new high tech device that's too complicated to explain]

What’s this?

“Dear owners, we’ve decided to expand to include our 33rd and 34th teams. We’re sold on Munich as the definitive home of the 33rd team. Some high rollers from Mercedes have stepped in and made an incredibly impressive offer. Given the success of our Euro expansion, we’ve narrowed the choices for the other site to Amsterdam, Tel Aviv and Lisbon. Thoughts, comments? Yours, in money, Commissioner Silver.”

I thought about it for awhile, but no good arguments sprung out at me. I glanced at the trade offer from E-Snow again.

Then, as a fantastic rapper–and writer–once said close to thirty years ago, “it came to me like a song I wrote.”

“In those days, Wall Street firms touted Argentina as one of the world’s hottest economies as they raked in fat fees for marketing the country’s stocks and bonds.
Thus were sown the seeds of one of the most spectacular economic collapses in modern history, a debacle in which Wall Street played a major role.” – Paul Blustein, Washington Post, August 3, 2003.

pay·back – noun

1.

the period of time required to recoup a capital investment.

2.

the return on an investment: a payback of 15 percent tax-free.

3.

the act or fact of paying back; repayment.

4.

something done in retaliation: a really vicious payback for years of being snubbed.

*

The YouTube video begins with a slogan: Argentina: REAL DREAM TEAM. Then, a native rapper spits a few bars about the national team, rhyming “cocina” (kitchen) with “Argentina”, and “Oberto, Herrmann, Scola” with “maestros en el control de la bola” (teachers in the control of the ball). The subsequent NBC footage from 2004 is grainy but familiar. Manu Ginobili jackknifes through the lane and converts an and-one between three defenders. Good, if unconventional, ball movement leads to a Pepe Sanchez 3. Ginobili sneaks baseline and receives a backdoor feed, leading to another and-one. Oberto, Herrmann and Scola dominate the boards and act as maestros en el control de la bola.

It continues: Andres Nocioni gets clinical in the post. Repeatedly. Hugo Sconochini whips a behind the back pass while airborne to a streaking Alejandro Montecchia on the break and Montecchia casually flips in an funny looking layup. Ginobili finishes a tricky alley-oop around Tim Duncan. Ginobili wets a three. Larry Brown furrows his brow in frustration. Allen Iverson has a look of pure disgust on his face. Stephon Marbury is being surly and committing cheap fouls. Ginobili draws a foul while nailing a 3. Scola emphatically dunks on Richard Jefferson and dances around like it’s his birthday. As the video comes to a close, Public Enemy’s “Shut ‘em Down” is on full blast.

For those suffering from short term memory loss, Team USA was bounced unceremoniously in the semifinals by Argentina in the ’04 Olympics, the mighty American basketball dragon fully slain. It was more than a basketball game for both countries. The loss put USA basketball on notice and was defining moment in Argentina’s run to Gold. Cavs GM Danny Ferry, who was Ginobili’s teammate during his rookie season, says matter-of-factly, “[Argentina] alone is one of the reasons why we switched to having more of a commitment and having more of a team than an all-star team.”

**

As the Olympic torch passed through streets filled with protesters during the spring leading up to this all important election year, it was obvious to anyone paying attention that America is at a crossroads. The country once thought of as the world superpower is losing its grip on global dominance and Team USA’s precipitous fall in international competition has mirrored recent political and economic turmoil. Barack Obama marches towards The White House promoting hope and America’s youth are marching along to the drum beat of, “yes, we can.” For those not caught in the misfire defining our occupation of Iraq, the most fundamentally damning reality of the here and now is a free-falling (Petty? yep) economy that continues to cripple our country, challenging the basic needs (eating, sleeping and affording a roof to live under) of millions of Americans, day in and day out.

It is only fitting then that we will be blessed—controversial or not—with this summer’s Olympic Games. There’s nothing quite like a team representing its country in Olympic competition to unify a struggling nation. For an America that has lost its way, and a people looking for something, anything, positive to latch on to, the Argentinean national basketball team—and more specifically Ginobili—provides a template of hope.

According to a study done by consulting group, Equis, published in Argentina’s widely read newspaper, Clarin, Argentina’s financial crisis hit rock bottom mere weeks before Manu Ginobili first stepped on NBA hardwood, in October of 2002, when 57.5% percent of its people were living under the poverty line and 27.5% were completely impoverished. Much like the US right now—albeit on a smaller, worse scale— a once stable middle class was ripped to financial shreds. Banks literally froze and held people’s money.

***

The reason this stuff interests me and I wrote about 7 papers about it in college is because I lived in Argentina for 3 months during the summer of 2000, mere months before the country started to fall apart. (I like to occasionally joke that it happened because they couldn’t handle me leaving, but, really, that’s not funny.) There were signs when I was there that an economic storm was coming. My host father owned a rubber factory and the family was quite well off. We were supposed to go skiing in Bari Loche (like the Argentinean Aspen) for break that July, but due to sudden financial constraints, plans were changed and we ended up in a small town in the mountains. Weeks later, as unspoken ideological differences strained my relationship with my host family, I habitually ditched my greedy, market capitalist fam and joined forces with my class, a graffiti-tagging gang compromised mostly of philosophical Che-loving hippies. They made sure to explain America’s role in globalizing Argentina, and how that positively and negatively affected them directly. My experiences with those kids permanently changed my view of the world. (I also, at 17, illegally suited up for a college basketball team down there, but that’s a story for another day.)

****

By the time Ginobili helped the Spurs to their second NBA title less than a year after the economy hit rock bottom things had started to improve. When Argentina won Olympic Gold in Athens the following summer, 23% of the people that had been living under the poverty line before Ginobili entered the NBA had risen out of the economic doldrums. Two years after that, over two thirds of those suffering from extreme poverty were extricated from green hell, and the percentage of Argentines staring up at the poverty line had shrunk by more than half.

Did Manu Ginobili directly improve Argentina’s economy by draining clutch threes and emerging as a force on basketball’s biggest stages? No, not really. Credit former President Néstor Kirchner, whose wife is now Argentina’s president, and former economic minister Roberto Lavagna, along with the society at large for not accepting the status quo, something today’s America fails miserably at. Still, Ginobili’s cultural contributions during these trying times are of immense import, literally and figuratively. And they will continue to matter.

While sports may offer very little direct correlation to a country’s economic revival, the irony of Ginobili’s star rising in the United States, a country partly responsible for his homeland’s recession, is unmistakable. Interestingly, Ginobili’s play and maturation process have put a positive twist on the same two words—reckless abandon—that define the way America and other financial powers invested in Argentina during the late 90’s. In fact, in 2003 Hans-Joerg Rudloff, chairman of the executive committee at Barclay’s Capital, compared the problems caused by greedy international investing in Argentina to the Enron disaster. As for Manu’s own hell bent style of play, his coach, Gregg Popovich recently told USA Today: “If I played him 40 minutes every night, Manu might just burn up. Disintegrate.”

What’s truly important after the fact is that Ginobili’s ascent with the Spurs and the success of Argentina’s national team gave his country something to be proud of during a period of time when there wasn’t much for any Argentine to wave a flag about. Moreover, by having arguably the NBA’s biggest per-minute impact—he was the only player to average over 17 a game in under 32 minutes per this year—Ginobili’s style of play and the accompanying stats have served to reinforce the idea that, during trying times, you need to squeeze every last drop out of everything that’s given to you in order to survive. “I don’t think I’m a player to play 42 minutes, to tell you the truth,” Ginobili told USA Today. “I think 35 would be good. But we have a lot of good players, and it’s good to have everybody fresh at the right time.” Heading into another Olympic summer, it’s imperative for Manu to be at his freshest as he tries to lead Argentina to gold again. Whereas he’s one out of three stars for the Spurs, for Argentina, he is the man; the man on a team, but still the man nonetheless.

Ginobili’s success–and I cover where it comes from more in the mag–is crucial because art and culture are often born out of struggle. Talib Kweli once asked: “What if the environment didn’t create the context for the art?” Had Larry and Magic not laid the foundation for Michael, you probably wouldn’t have ever held SLAM in your hands. Jordan’s globalization of the NBA also paved the way for a young international dreamer like Ginobili, born into a basketball family, to actualize his path.

In part because of where he comes from and what he’s seen in his life—shared experiences that are unique to being an Argentine—Ginobili doesn’t care for a lot of the extracurricular stuff that today’s players get caught up in. “I really don’t know what other people think,” he told The Salt Lake Tribune. “I don’t talk about that and I don’t read so many papers. Maybe I am not [appreciated]. But I don’t worry because I am on a championship team. I have three rings. So I really don’t care. I know that further [along] in my career – or once I’m 50 years old – I’m going to look at my rings and not [worry] about whether somebody appreciates me. . . . I’m going to look at those rings and that will be the thing.”

*****

Adrian Paenza, a broadcaster and mathematician who played an integral role in bringing the NBA to Argentina, said the following to the Newark Star Ledger about the way Argentinean players have developed their ubiquitous tenacity: “The conditions are very bad. The dressing rooms leak, you play in hostile environments where you don’t know if the police are going to protect you or hit you, and you grow as a man very fast. The ones who survive are the toughest.”

“When you look at Scola, Oberto, Nocioni, those guys all grew up together,” Ferry adds. “There was a passion to play and a passion to compete. It was a very special group of guys that all helped each other.”

As their country continues to rebound and Ginobili continues to represent an improving Argentina (politics, economics and basketball), one thing is certain: Argentina deserves its success.

One can only hope we don’t throw out the blueprint. It’s more important to be all-world than it is to be an all-star.

Jake Appleman is a senior writer for SLAM. His third favorite kind of cheese is cheddar. To pick up the second part of his two part magazine feature on Manu Ginobili, grab SLAM’s Olympic issue.

It’s summer, a period time when I have lots of short thought bursts, but few actual long-winded things to get at. Sometimes old thoughts need to leave the cranium so new thoughts can enter.

–In part because we were inundated with coverage, I kept my Finals-related musings to myself. No more…I picked the C’s because of team defense, and lo and behold, voila, team defense wins a championship. It wasn’t really all that surprising. Recently, when Jay’s “Money, Cash, Hoes” came up on my IPod shuffle I started thinking about the line where he spits, “Sex, murder and mayhem, romance for the streets, and I’ll tell ya, it’ll be the best seller.” The Lakers, picked by most of the “experts”, were so the best seller. Their dominance leading up to the Finals along with their leading man’s rep (sex, murder and mayhem) overshadowed the team that won 66 games, beat them twice during the regular season and boasted the personnel to get the job done. Silly experts and their shortsightedness! 20/20 is blindsight. This was only exacerbated by their fans, many of whom seemed to be counting down the victories like it was some sort of Western Conference birthright.

–During the Finals I couldn’t stop thinking that Kobe’s performance from the floor was a lot like D-Wade during a T-Mobile press conference: “yeah, Chuck.”

ZING!

You missed me. Admit it.

–Marc Stein: Please invite me to play next year’s Steve Nash charity soccer match. We can guard each other, so that we both end up looking better than we would otherwise. Plus, how many other basketball writers have ever covered Real Madrid and could serve as Leo Messi’s de-facto on-field translator?

–Ethan Jones, on who his favorite basketball player is: “LeBwon Bwames”

–Get well soon, Brian Windhorst.

–Congratulations to Spain, and to my main man, Fernando Torres. With Rafael Nadal’s thrilling triumph at Wimbledon, I’m thinking we should feed Team USA a steady diet of paella mixta this summer.

–When Steve Nash hits an out of shape Shaq in the mouth with a pass during training camp, will he ask: “How does my pass taste?”

–CDR, welcome to the swamp. Most of us think more highly of you than the people that made picks 20-39.

–My favorite quote of the women’s NCAA tournament that I’ve been meaning to mention for a while came from Stanford’s Rosalyn Gold-Onwude: “I’m a pretty big dork. I’d like to think I’m the cool dork–the kind that you’d like to hang out with.” Smart and honest. You go, girl!

–Love the Gerald Green to the Mavs signing. Hopefully, Cubes and Carlisle curtail his poor eating habits, perhaps symptomatic of a larger problem. Seriously, every time I saw Green pregame, he was snarfing down some chicken tenders and fries. And, yeah, I know that tons of NBA youngsters chow down unhealthy arena food before games like they wanna be sportswriters, but I knew Green needed to change his ways when he blew out a cupcake during this year’s dunk contest. When your first two seasons can be at best described as “calorific”, you need to find some whole grains to go with the supplemental veteran leadership.

–Wait, so you mean Baron Davis and Eric Gordon will play in the same backcourt? Can they fuse themselves together and become Eric Davis, the first basketball player to spit chewing tobacco on the court after nailing a pull-up 28 foot three?

–Elton Brand to Philly? Here’s to spending more time watching live ball in Boston, Philly and DC next year than the tri-state area! Perhaps he jetted east because the production company he may have wanted to start with Baron Davis didn’t seem feasible. Two potential all-stars, both into film production, that could have lifted a dormant franchise back into contention spend a week texting and seemingly waiting for the inevitable and then it falls apart? I’m just saying.

–The JO trade is win/win for the JO. Even if he gets hurt, he he’s covered automatically by his team’s health care plan and his country’s plan. So jealous.

–If the Nets don’t have at least three or four dim sum nights for the media next year, I’ll be disappointed.

–The secret franchise that David Stern is about to launch to the moon has plenty of 2010 cap space. Hey, I have a great idea. Why don’t you go f*cking write about it?

Back in late September, I participated in a focus group for the MSG network during the Isiah Thomas sexual harassment civil litigation suit. More than halfway through the wallet-padding experience, the eight of us were split into two teams and asked to pretend we were TV executives and come up with ideas for potential shows. The best idea we had was a joke: The Front Office, a parody on NBC’s smash hit, The Office, based on the New York Knicks.

The Front Office would star Tim Meadows as Thomas, the embattled (moronic?) Coach and General Manager; Paul Giamiatti as James Dolan, the free-spending (legally blind?) owner; and Terry Tate Office Linebacker—the muscle-bound, roid-raging Reebok-commercial phenomenon from a few years back—as Anucha Browne Sanders, the woman who won $11.6 million in her sexual harassment suit against Thomas. In the words of Tate/Sanders: “This ain’t your cake, Isiah. This is Anucha’s cake.”

Yes, the Knicks have become such a comic disgrace that there should be a TV show made to chronicle what goes on in The World’s Most Famous Arena. To most suffering fans it appears obvious that, as a catastrophic failure on the court, the Knicks are the antithesis of New York City, a place experiencing such economic growth that living almost anywhere in Brooklyn will cost you a small fortune.

But look closer. Dolan has legally misappropriated enough money to wet John Gotti’s dreams—yet, with a net value of $604 million according to Forbes Magazine, the Knicks are still the most valuable franchise in the NBA. If you’re of the belief that the Giuliani crackdowns robbed New York of its soul, turning the town into a high-end mall, then the team fits its home perfectly. The Knicks, like their city, have grown soft.

David Simon, the Creator of The Wire,an HBO drama that showcased Baltimore’s grittiness, said of New York: “There is no city more vain about its position in popular culture, more indifferent to other realities, more self absorbed than New York City. You guys have a lot going on and there are lot of wonderful stories to be told. But you literally think you have the end thing to say, the nth degree of what to say on every one of them.

“Baltimore has 10 times your crime rate, 5 times your rate of poverty. And yet, because all the Wall Street money went here in the 80′s and the 90′s, and there is no more hell in Alphabet City and Morningside Heights is being gentrified, Manhattan is one big pile of money. You guys think you know urban America; you don’t know sh*t anymore.”

In order to fully see if the Knicks/NYC parallel could work, I took the entire roster, with the exceptions of the sparingly used Randolph Morris and Wilson Chandler, and assigned each player an NYC neighborhood based on the quality of analogy. The current player was compared, not only to a neighborhood now, but juxtaposed against the same neighborhood back in the early 90′s and the player that played that role on the early 90′s bad-boy Knicks, the best New York basketball teams in modern history.

As Simon would say if he were a rabid NBA fan, New York used to know hard-nosed basketball; it doesn’t know sh*t anymore.

(Note: There were criteria for positions. Centers—or men in the middle—were represented by 42nd street; guards, because they usually set up near downtown, were assigned neighborhoods below 14th street; frontcourt power players were assigned neighborhoods above 59th street; and wing players without one defining on-court identity were metaphorically represented by neighborhoods east of the island (Queens), because, well, west is New Jersey where there’s a franchise that actually has a clue.)

Ladies and Gentleman, the starting lineup for YOUR-NEW-YORK-KNICKS!

A 6″11 Forward, from Long Island City…Jared Jeffries!

LIC is supposed to be a city, hence the name, but it isn’t; it’s just an increasingly expensive neighborhood that looks across at “the city.” To that end, while Jeffries is supposed to be a defensive stopper that can guard 4 out of the 5 positions on the floor, he hasn’t lived up to his billing and often resorts watching other taller-building ballers (David Lee, Renaldo Balkman) play actual defense.

This all about context: To the non-thinker (Thomas), it stood to reason that Jeffries was a defensive standout because he was arguably the best defender on the 05-06 Washington Wizards. The truth is those Wizards were a weak defensive team that relied on offensive prowess. In fact, Jeffries’s defense was kind of like the needle in a haystack of crap: shitty.

The same sort of thing can be said of LIC: sure if you dropped it in the middle of Indianapolis, it’d be the center of a metropolis. In New York, it’s just another place people who can’t afford to live in Manhattan call home. Back in early 90′s, LIC was a moderately priced neighborhood that didn’t try to be too much and Charles Smith, when he wasn’t busy blowing the most important playoff game of the 92-93 season, didn’t try too hard, though he did use his discernible offensive abilities to help the Knicks win games.

A 6″9 Power Forward, from the South Bronx…Zach Randolph!

While Randolph is dangerous enough—CBS Survivor: Hoop Family (Randolph’s posse) would be incredible—he lacks the heart and grimy win-at-all costs style of play that defined an era and endeared Charles Oakley to the old school New Yorker. Randolph is everything that one could argue is currently wrong with New York and its Knicks: an overpriced, overrated mess that thinks in green and believes it’s better than it actually is.

Much like the South Bronx of today, any positive reaction to Randolph’s game probably comes from numerical misrepresentation. His impressive stats are a front that seek to hide his deficiencies as a basketball player, while the South Bronx wikipedia page footnotes an article from the summer of 2004 by Robert Zink of PBA magazine, which asserts the following (Randolph-related footnotes added in italics):

“So how do you fake a crime decrease?” Zink asks. “It’s pretty simple. Don’t file reports (don’t pass out of the double team), misclassify crimes from felonies to misdemeanors (forget to play good help defense), under-value the property lost to crime so it’s not a felony (fail to co-exist with anyone that boasts a similar skill set), and report a series of crimes as a single event (fire an ill-advised airball from out of your range that becomes fodder for YouTube ridicule). A particularly insidious way to fudge the numbers is to make it difficult or impossible for people to report crimes (fail in aspects of the game that are hard to statistically track) — in other words, make the victims feel like criminals so they walk away just to spare themselves further pain and suffering (make 13+ million dollars a year and beg to leave immediately, because, as always, it’s never your fault).”

Unlike Randolph, back when the Knicks were the soul of New York, the Oak-man did real police work in the paint, establishing a truly frightening identity that sent shockwaves through the league.

A 6″11 Center, from Times Square…Eddy Curry!

The center of New York’s madness back in the day, both Times Square and Patrick Ewing were dangerous forces that could intimidate anyone not looking for trouble. Ewing came to the Knicks fresh from Georgetown, where he wreaked such havoc on defense that the fear instilled in opponents was labeled “Hoya Paranoia.” Times Square, before the Giuliani crackdowns, was a cesspool of sin, where you could do practically anything with drugs, except perhaps have sex with them—but that’s what the factory-line of hookers was for.

Now, Times Square is a corporate center and that only truly succeeds if you’re thinking in numbers (financial digits or tourist counts). Meanwhile, Curry’s scoring output and impressive field goal percentage mask the fact that the dude wouldn’t know a rebound if it hit him in the face or a defensive stance if he got low to pick up a donut.

A 6″2 Point Guard, from Williamsburg…Stephon Marbury!

The self-proclaimed Starbury, legendary incoherent talk show rambler, born-again Christian, the shoe game’s fake Robin Hood and the NBA’s premier Diva, is all about one thing: himself. The put-on in manner of his actions is eerily reminiscent of Williamsburg’s vomit-inducing hipsters, a spreading virus of a people that seek to make their every whim uber-chic—funny because Williamsburg has a history of environmental hazards.

Just as hipsters think they’re really cool because they rave about something called “performance art” and the newest in-band that nobody has ever heard of, Marbury thinks he’s God’s gift to the NBA. Sadly, neither could be further from the truth. Bottom line: Both the ‘Burg, thanks to its annoying invaders, and Marbury, thanks to his eccentricities, are sad played-out parodies of self.

It wasn’t always this selfishly bad. Just as Doc Rivers and Derek Harper were real point guards that played both ends of the floor—share and share alike— when they ran the 93 and 94 Knicks respectively, Wiliamsburg, pre hipster invasion, was a real New York neighborhood that enjoyed popular music, like the deafening chants of DE-FENSE that rained sweetly down from the Garden rafters during the early 90′s.

A 6″5 Shooting Guard, from Park Slope…Jamal Crawford!

Crawford, much like the post-gentrification “Slope” can look great at times but doesn’t have the requisite soul to be a winner, as indicated by the fact that he’s never played on a team that has won more than 40% of its games. The contrast between Crawford and the heart and soul of those old rugged Knicks teams, John Starks, is staggering. Much like the Slope then and now, streak-shooters Crawford and Starks couldn’t be more different if they tried. Crawford, whose occasional schoolyard trickery excites the crowd, is style while Starks, who refused to back down from Michael Jordan, was substance.

Anecdotal evidence: my cousin, who grew up in Park Slope, was the recipient of an unprovoked public beat-down in his own neighborhood. That summer, when he told the story at sleep-away camp, all the rich kids from the suburbs looked at him like he was from Beirut. He used to carry knives for protection; now his former hood is all Sushi joints and multi-million dollar brownstones. How the scrappy have fallen.

THE BENCH:

A 6″6 Small Forward, from Queensbridge…Quentin Richardson!

Due to reputation, one would think Richardson, much like the Queensbridge of today, would be more dangerous than he actually is. While QR has been slowed by seemingly endless string of nagging injuries, QB has been slowed by police. Crime is a function of society—”The Bridge” thrived in that regard back in the day—just as Anthony Mason, arguably the fulcrum of the Knicks’ early 90′s bad-assed-ness, succeeded in the context of that time. Could Mase excel in today’s tightly officiated, patsy NBA? Probably not on the same level. Does gentrification-era QB truly maintain the ridiculously dangerous rep represented by the vivid lyrical portraits painted by rapper Nas? Not on the same level.

A 5″9 Point guard, from Coney Island….Nate Robinson!

A rambunctious, if occasionally out of control youngster with promise, Robinson is represented by both the good and bad of the cyclone, unstoppable at his best, destructive at his worst. Meanwhile, Coney Island’s future is brighter thanks to the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Mets’ Class-A minor league affiliate. The irony here is somewhat obvious: Marbury’s backup does a better job at metaphorically representing his neighborhood than he does. And don’t get it twisted, though he may now be an ESPN talking head, Greg Anthony’s “hands-on” approach to defense perfectly mirrors the dangers of the early 90′s Coney Island that reared Marbury. Just ask Kevin Johnson, the former Phoenix Sun point guard that Anthony punched in the face.

A 6″2 Guard, from the East Village…Fred Jones!

My fondest childhood memories from the East Village involve repeatedly running up to the foot of my parents’ bed and excitedly saying, “amblience, amblience,”—baby-talk for “ambulance”—and listening to a drunk homeless man sing himself to sleep every night on our stoop. My mom, a modern dancer that choreographed shows on and off-Broadway, was one of the first artists to colonize the East Village in the late 70′s back when you couldn’t, in theory at least, pay people to live there.

When my parents moved my family to the suburbs at the end of the 80′s, it was, in part, because they didn’t think the city—particularly the East Village—was safe enough to raise children in. Mom used to walk through her neighborhood holding her keys through her fingers to scare away potential muggers. Having moved back into town 7 years ago to support my brother’s acting career, she now says the only thing she worries might be robbed is her home. This is staggering because she owns it.

While recently staring out the window of her apartment, looking out at new multi-million dollar lofts across the street, she opined, “They probably look at us like the Beverly Hillbillies.”

Back in the glory days, the Knicks had two jumpshot artists (Rolando Blackmon and Hubert Davis) that brought something different yet needed to the bench. Contrast Blackmon and Davis with the Knicks’ current backup shooting guard, Fred Jones, and you’ll see that while Jones appears to be semi-talented—he even jumps really high!—he has no place on a truly gritty basketball team. Like the East Village today, his game is overpriced and superficial without holding the same true value—or, to wit, just another Fred Jones.

A 7″1 Center, from the Port Authority Bus Terminal…Jerome James!

The Port Authority and Jerome James are both currently the most overpriced, wastes of space in New York. Contrary to the most basic definitions of each—”basketball player” and “terminal of buses”—neither features the desired movement, except for occasional traveling. As you might expect, this frustrates fans and customers alike that want their freaking money back.

Herb Williams, current Knicks assistant and Ewing’s backup back in the day, was out-dated even on those great Knick teams, but his toughness still fit the general mold of the city, just as the dangerous pedophile leeches that my eighth grade Health teacher Mr. Goodman warned us lurked in Port Authority fit the nature of the city back then.

A 6″6 Guard from Bedford Stuyvesant…Mardy Collins!

Back in the day, Eric Anderson, a benchwarmer perhaps best known for his cameo in the brilliant documentary Hoop Dreams, never played. His role was to practice hard and stay as far away from the game as possible. His coach, Pat Riley, just never went there, mirroring the reality that most folks that didn’t already live in Bed Stuy wouldn’t dare set foot there in the early 90′s.

Times have changed, as indicated by Collins’ occasional minutes—he played enough to commit the foul that incited a brawl last season against the Nuggets—and the stunning gentrification of what was once arguably New York’s most dangerous neighborhood.

A 6″7 Forward, from the Upper East Side…Malik Rose!

Rose is elderly (12 year veteran), has retirement money ($7 million this year to, more or less, not play), wonderful memories (spent most of his career on the Spurs) and fancy rings (two championships)…kind of like wealthy folks that make up the majority of the UES. Much like those looking to gentrify may look to their now-wealthy UES predecessors for counsel, Rose dispenses advice to Knicks on the bench like a wizened sage. It’s just too bad there’s nobody there to truly heed his words.

Much like the UES of 15 years ago, Monty Williams was once a promising youngster. His career never really panned out like it should have, but like most of those born into privilege, he landed fine and now works as an assistant coach on the up and coming Portland Trail Blazers.

A 6″8 Forward, from Harlem…Renaldo Balkman!

Harlem, like the unheralded Renaldo Balkman, hustles its ass off. The problem is that those in power never simply let the two just do their thing. Like Isiah messing with Balkman’s minutes, Harlem keeps getting messed with by those in power trying to over-gentrify. This has led to protests and an uneasiness that, understandably, pisses people off.

Tony Campbell, a prolific scorer with the expansion Timberwolves and Lakers before coming to the Knicks, never quite fit in New York. Like Balkman and Harlem, Top Cat’s style, which revolved around scoring, wasn’t utilized properly, although it could be argued that this happened because he didn’t fit the defensive identity of the team.

A 6″9 Forward, from Spanish Harlem…David Lee!

Crime rates are down in El Barrio—felony assault dropped 73.8% between 1990 and 2007 according to Compstat. To that end, Lee doesn’t quite assault players driving into the lane quite like 1994 enforcer Anthony Bonner, but he still plays with a strong interior presence. In fact, Lee, like a modernizing Spanish Harlem, has more money earning and quality of work potential than Bonner did. The key is combining an old-school tenacity with moderate expansion that doesn’t try and over-do it. Expand, but don’t overshadow; stay true to your game.

The reason Lee will never succumb to the crap around him is the same reason Spanish Harlem, at least in theory, can never fully be gentrified: human nature. Lee’s often the only Knick shooting around before the game. Meanwhile, one would hope that most Spanish Harlem residents will strive to never fully give up what defines them: their native language and the Latin American cultural melting pot that defines their neighborhood’s vibrant soul. Could naming nearly everything after Tito Puente still mean something if the majority of the neighborhood turned that ever-trendy combination of Casper-white and money-green? Doubtful.

(Sidenote: If a yuppie ever calls Spanish Harlem “Spa-Ha” in your presence, you are obligated to punch them in the face. Even if your hands were chopped off in a freakishly gruesome ban-saw accident. This is non-negotiable.)

Strange, the Knicks’ biggest hope lies in their one white boy. That should turn this basketball/gentrification metaphor upside down.

The update: When the Knicks tabbed old school New Yorker Donnie Walsh to take over as general manager, my karmic heart fluttered. Could it be? NYC, returning to its roots? All the Knicks needed to do was hire Mark Jackson, a New Yorker that overcame the odds (too pudgy, too slow, can’t jump), and fuse his likable demeanor with Jeff Van Gundy’s defensive stylings–ABC, it’s as easy as 1,2,3 (and compulsively watching tape)–in order to give them the best shot at old school NYC glory. But no, they had to go fancy international flavor and shiny offense with D’Antoni. More offense! Build it higher, new hire, and use more fire! Seriously, if OJ Mayo (the polished struggle) is available and they pick Danilo “the exchange rate” Gallinari (hope without defense springs eternal), someone just burn the entire building down.

–On Saturday night, I had some delicious Forrest Berry pie. The following afternoon, with two minutes left in the fourth quarter of Game 7, I ran into the kitchen and cut myself a slice of leftover pie. There was no way I was going to watch the last two minutes of that incredible game without some pie. Sometimes you want your epic Game 7 and you want to eat it, too.

–As much as the home away from homer in me wanted to see the Cavs pull an upset, this seems like a logical progression for LeBron and co. They fought hard, have nothing to be ashamed of, and look to be on the cusp—second scorer still needed—of glory. They were one clutch shot—DJ, live and brick from the corner; Sasha stepping ill-fatedly on the line—from being able to put themselves in position to deliver a knockout blow. Anyone else thinking Boobie’s absence made a huge difference? They needed a knockdown guy to space the floor and unclog the lane and they just didn’t have him on Sunday (though kudos to Delonte West in all of his creative glory and admirable will power).

–With the Celtics and Pistons a year older and the West wide open and beating the crap out of itself, I don’t see why the Cavs can’t win it next year. Yeah, I said it. Sure, the roster is overpriced and there isn’t much G-Managerial leg room. Still, the Cavs, health-permitting, will always be able to Team D up and that is criminally underrated in May and June. Hell, had they won yesterday, you know they weren’t going to lose to Detroit—the whole thing seemed set up like dominoes. (In truth, I was hoping for CLE-LA, mostly for Sasha vs. Sasha, both looking for the vic). Anyway, the Cavs have defensive structure; they just need another layer. If championship basketball is a house, the Cavs have most of it (LeBron&defense) in place. It’s hilarious to listen to the national pundits wet themselves because LeBron could sign elsewhere in 2010. They jump on the team’s weaknesses, and all of a sudden the average couch potato is sitting there arguing like the team got swept. Fellas…screamers…this is Cleveland basketball, not extreme makeover ho edition.

Plus, the Cavs, as currently comprised and with minimal tweaking, will always be a more dangerous in the playoffs than in the regular season.

–After game 1, I wondered if the Cavs really blew their shot at a game in Boston that was theirs for the taking. Bron’s seemingly inconceivable 2-18 was reverse reminiscent of Reggie’s 8 second Game 1 takedown of the ’95 Knicks, who, despite the meltdown, were still a Patrick Ewing finger roll away from a ECF matchup with young Shaq/Penny. The roles were reversed in this series, but the hard fought grind it out nature was the same.

–Pistons-Celtics. Celtics in 7. Because sometimes it just is what it is.

–KG has all of Boston’s early first quarter field goals, beasting inside and wetting jumpers. Water is wet and KG is sweat, and sweat is water.

–After LeBron rumbles through the paint like freight train, mom opines: “Well, thank God he’s a basketball player and not selling auto insurance. He’s doing what he was meant to do.” I think the Geico Gecko has already made his presence felt.

–Apparently Delonte West is battling bad allergies. What is he allergic to, being consistently awesome?

–It’s a seesaw affair early. It feels like the Cs are getting cleaner looks at the rim, what with the Cavs scoring on a tough midrange floater from Boobie and a 3 point play from LeBron.

–Mom on Anderson Varejao: “Is that a good aerodynamic haircut?”

–A pretty Joe Smith fade–career metaphor?–puts the Cavs up 23-21 to end the quarter.

Second Quarter

–LeBron gets after Pavlovic and Doug Collins praises his leadership. A little while later, Collins notes that LeBron has only made shots after absorbing contact. Such all encompassing absorption; LeBron was either a roll of paper towel or a writer in a past life.

–Solid contributions from Boobie and Andy–”Boobie and Andy”; I smell a sitcom!–help put the Cavs up 37-31.

–Relevant stats via DC/TNT/A truck: The Cavs have started 7-9 for the period; Rajon Rondo has taken more shots than Paul Pierce and Ray Allen combined.

–Mom, on Pierce wrapping LeBron up and dragging him into the crowd: “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” I doubt there was another mother in the stands that felt the same way…

–Ray Allen is doing a fantastic impression of the mouse in my apartment.

–Cs go on a 6-0 run after LeBron picks up his 3rd foul. LeBron is visible on the bench, yelling at his teammates: “MOVE THE BALL. F*CK!” Good job, TNT. How LeBron managed to yell an asterisk into a curse word is stunning.

–A Z tip and two Boobie free throws sandwich a Ray Allen pull up, putting the Cavs up two heading into the half.

Third Quarter

–Wally Szczerbiak and Ray Allen basically audition side by side in the remake of a crappy recent flick that starred Mark Wahlberg. You might have heard of it.

Shooter.

Szczerbiak impresses the casting director most with an 18 foot bank shot, but Allen nails more lines.

–A seemingly haphazard volleyball tap from Z leaves LeBron wide open at the 3 point line with the ball. He missed many shots on this night, but this much needed trey went down. Cleveland just had a moment.

–Rajon Rondo is hot. Sam Cassell is not. Maybe because one invariably gets cold on the bench.

–JOE SMITH! (Those two words just say so much)

Fourth Quarter

–P.J. Brown and Sam Cassell run a pick and roll that was actually born in 1957.

–A beautiful no look from LeBron to Joe Smith puts the Cavs up 76-71.

–Does P.J. Brown claim ten foot bank shots on his tax returns?

–LeBron drills a big 3 off a bruising screen set by Varejao. Pierce counters with a 13 footer, but Boobie responds with a 3 of his own. The role players are rolling.

–Mom, upon seeing a jump ball: “Ooh they’re doing one of those jumpy things!”

–Acceptable nicknames forthe dunk:

THE ROTTERDAMN (lots of windmills in Rotterdam), THE HOKEY POKEY (incredible lyric/reference from the Outkast/Rae song “Royal Flush), THE YOUR MOM, THE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, THE BIG STICKIT (you know, cause he dunked on KG).

A final point: With 8:45 left in the fourth quarter, Daniel Gibson nailed a three. It pushed Cleveland’s lead to five, but that wasn’t what was really important. As he was backpedaling down the court, a smirk crossed Boobie’s face. It was one of those typical “I know something you don’t know” grins. It was really simple, and it read: we’re not losing this game. 6 minutes later, moments before the ROTTERDAMN, another Boobie 3 effectively sealed the deal.

Before I get to my game 3 analysis, a quick, somewhat relevant story from late afternoon on Saturday: My roommate and I were headed downtown but the subway wasn’t running that way because of track work, so we needed to hop a cab. Right before we hit the corner to hail the cab, a group of teens, including one holding a basketball, walked up to the entrance of an adjacent building. As I always do when I see someone holding a basketball, I stared at it. One of the kids must have seen me looking at the ball because after I had turned around to hail the cab, I heard the following yelled in my direction:

“Hey white boy; you look like Brian Scalabrine, ni99a!”

I considered wheeling around and giving the kids a speech about the importance of Brian Scalabrine to the world, but we were running late. In fact, just two days prior I had an enlightening conversation with Scalabrine about blogs and the recent Buzz Bissinger/Will Leitch roundtable on Costas Now–a dialogue initiated by Scal. Anyway, I like talking to Scalabrine because he has his opinions, but he doesn’t shove them down your throat. He strikes a conversational balance, which many people in love with their own opinions have a hard time doing. In essence, his personality is conducive to discourse, which is something anybody with a brain in their head can appreciate. That goes for the emerging Leon Powe as well.

Oh, and if anyone was confused, I look nothing like Brian Scalabrine.

I look like Slava Medvedenko.

Anyway, on to my game 3 word vomit.

Farley: What the hell was that?Spade: A chunk in the road or something.Farley: I just chunked in my pants.

In the 1996 film Black Sheep, Chris Farley and David Spade are sent on a mission to retroactively save the world from an elitist Hillary Clinton, recapturing a lost youth after the fact by firing round after round of hollow tips at a litter of newborn Labrador puppies in her grandfather’s backyard. On their way to stop Hillary, Farley and Spade (known as Mike and Steve, for those concerned with such irrelevant details) encounter problems on the road. The nitrous oxide booster in their borrowed police cruiser bursts, leaking toxic fumes into the car that get them high. At one point Spade (or “Steve”) starts marveling at the word “road”, pronouncing it “RO-ADD” in his hazy state. If you project “RO-ADD”—a combination of the word “road”, “A-D-D”, and being stoned—on the Boston Celtics’ Game 3 performance, it fits perfectly.

I wanted to watch Game 3 and analyze how the Cavs were going to break down the Cs vaunted defense, focusing on a series of important possessions that would illustrate how Mike Brown had adjusted his offense that revolves around the pick and roll. This didn’t happen because the Celtics didn’t play much defense, giving up 32 points in the first quarter, some of it resulting from lazy man-marking, some of it resulting from poor rebounding and some of it resulting from confidence gained by Cleveland’s shooters after being left open.

(Note: If you leave a shooter open once in front of 20,000 people rooting for him in a big game and he drains it, drainage probability increases the second time, even if you get a hand in his face. This is known in various kitchens as the basketball derivative of “home cooking”, or what my wonderful mother—happy mother’s day!—would refer to as offensive “comfort food.”)

Yeah, Cleveland spaced the floor and knocked down shots, but there was no “look at how good we are on defense, now respond!” tone to the game set by the Celtics. When the lead ballooned to 26, it was over—and if anyone wasn’t sure, early in the third quarter LeBron pinned a Rajon Rondo layup to the backboard, a vertically majestic “Game Over”…with almost a half left to play.

Everyone Danny Ferry acquired during the giant mid-season swap between the Cavs, Bulls and Sonics went off in Game 3. Joe Smith played ball indicative of the solid season he had; in the biggest professional game of his life Delonte West was freaking brilliant (I’ll take words I thought I’d never write for 400, Alex); and Walter Robert Szczerbiakgot to serve-the-yak with Michele Tafoya during a rare halftime interview done by someone other than LeBron.

While West, Smith and Szczerbiak all put up gaudy numbers, Ben Wallace’s presence might have been the most important.

Keanu Reeves [to himself]: NO WAY!?!?

Keanu Reeves [to himself]: WAY!!!!

Many have actually underrated Wallace’s ability to make an impact since he’s fallen off from his “Fear the Fro” days as the league’s strongest defensive anchor. Part of this has to do with his regular season performances not living up to the huge contract he received after leaving the Pistons, and part of it has to do with younger, more athletic Bulls periodically making him look comparatively old and unimportant. Truth is, Wallace can still play playoff D and act as necessary a cog that battles down low. Case in point: the Cavs out-hustled Boston in game 1 and nearly won with BW on the floor despite LeBron’s 2-18, yet they didn’t stand a chance in game 2 without him. Never underestimate the power of grabbing loose balls or throwing a body on KG/Perkins/P.J.Brown/Powe.

Are the Celtics really Dr. Jekyll (clinical) at home and Rawhide (ass) on the road? If their fans are their b*tches, do they really suffer from chronic b*tch dependency? Was that last sentence just an excuse to link this video (NSFW)?

Due to overall exhaustion (Jon giving his architectural semester’s summation presentation to his Harvard peers and me working till 2AM before tidying up the riot that ensued yesterday in these parts and hopping on a bus a few hours later), we decided to run game notes as a G-Chat that we had while sitting in two different press sections. Bad idea. I think we were boasting a combined 5 hours worth of sleep. I don’t have the time to sift through and fully edit a 3 hour long chat, so I’m going to run a few thoughts and then some choice chat highlights for you guys.

–Let’s get this out of the way: That may have been the worst offensive game of LeBron’s life. 10 turnovers (many came from haphazardly trying to split two or three guys) and 2-18 combine to form a putridity that even I don’t have to explain to you guys. He displayed visible frustration on a few jumpers that rimmed out and failed to finish near the rim consistently–like the awkward guy that struggles to “put it back in.” With this performance coinciding with yesterday’s piece, I’d be lying to you if I told you I wasn’t disappointed. And yes, I kept expecting him to do something amazing in spite of the struggles. Here’s the thing though: When he dropped 50 on the Knicks, he scored 2 in the first quarter. Last night, he didn’t quit on anybody and he fought to the death. Regardless of outcome, these numbers are an aberration, not a trend.

–Kudos (Check plus plus) to big Z. Z was a man on the boards and consistently took advantage of open looks. He was vintage Z, and the Cavs will need him if they are going to pull this off. There were a few possessions when limited mobility and picking up his dribble hurt Z, but overall, you couldn’t have asked for more.

–After a good half an hour of real time on the bench following a comical 0-5 start, Wally “Long Island, STAND UP!” Szczerbiak drained a series of clutch shots for the Cavs, without which the game probably wouldn’t have been so close.

–Kevin Garnett is absolutely f*cking insane. But you already knew that. There were two moments last night when KG was oozing hardwood psycho like a metaphorical serial rapist. Once, as the ball was brought up the floor he did this sort of slide/trance/dance thing which I can’t describe any better than that–maybe he actually slipped, but I doubt it–and when the Cavs were inbounding the ball, sideline out of bounds, towards the end of the game, he was sneaking around like a dude that had a knife in his back pocket. The man is a fire-breathing dragon of intense ridiculousness that would eat your screaming baby alive if you left it in the paint by accident.

–Rajon Rondo was the MVP of the first half. Despite a few turnovers, he controlled tempo during the C’s early run and took advantage of his speed to get to and convert in the lane. Yet, he barely played in the second half because Sam Cassell’s is late game teste’d. Now, I don’t know sh*t about X-factorials (does such a thing exist, mathletes?) but having two 1′s to the maximum power must be awesome. As fate would have it, I headed towards the locker room after the game from my seat behind Mrs. Rondo, who was treated like royalty, as she should be. That must have been one of those induced “speed births”. “C’s section?” Okay, enough.

–James Posey was the unheralded star of the game. His defense on the LeBron and overall impact during the Celtics’ early run in the first quarter were huge.

–The Cavs almost won this game on sheer hustle and grit, by getting to loose balls and by making shots when they absolutely had to. Nothing more, nothing less. Given the need for LeBron and Paul Pierce and Ray Allen to all rebound, it’s impossible to fathom how game 2 will pan out because LeBron could go off, but if the insistence on getting to the rim, crashing the boards and grabbing loose balls don’t follow suit, the Cavs could lose that one too.

Chat highlights:

Pre/First Quarter

8:16 PM me: I think they just turned the arena fluorescent green during intros…was that just me?

8:17 PM btw, I would pay to watch a movie of KG and PP screaming their heads off with that crazy, bobble-heading neck vibration thing that the tech staff added.

8:54 PM Sasha growing out his hair really gives him an “Em before he blew” vibe.

jonathan: guess that means we cal him Sound Bombing II

8:55 PM me:

“ANY MAN” Pavlovic

Or “ANY MAN (intro)” Pavlovic

Not sure which I like more. Excellent swipe by Boobie, saving a transition opportunity that Posey started with a heads up play, taking advantage of Delonte West, lying all motionless on the ground after hitting a layup.

The Cavs are on pace for a 30 point half…

9:03 PM jonathan: Almost 50% better than the offensive output of the last opponent here

me: Touche.

9:07 PM me: Not to disparage the quality of D being played, but sloppiness has really been a factor so far.

jonathan: Rarely does the emergence of boobs serve to silence a crowd.

me: KG Huge shot. He’s been making shots over outstretched arms all night.

LeBron, not so much. He’s gotta make that. Z got a tip-in from an earlier miss to due attention drawn via penetration, but even if you’re rebounding really well, conversions in dire situations are absolutley necessary.

…know the difference between a king and a pawn.” – Jay Z, D(is)S track.

There are a few things in this life that I am sure of. First off, intimacy is amazing and makes life worth living. Second, the hippopotamus at the Philadelphia Zoo looks exactly like John Goodman in the face–it’s uncanny. Third, don’t ever bet against LeBron James.

Really, the more you (non-Wizards fans) doubt LeBron James, the more you’re feeding into a…wait for it…dogged, subconscious, aesthetically preferential under-doggedness…that plagues perspective. Sure, the Wiz could have won round 1, and it wouldn’t be wise to think the Celtics won’t win round 2. But with King James, you never know. Ever. It’s like, if I gave you one in three odds that there would be some awesome 2,000 word metaphor post put up on SlamOnline on a random Tuesday during the dog days of February, would you take the odds? What if the bet was that if you were right, you get a million bucks and if you were wrong, you die. 1 in 3 odds that you perish.

The initial impulse might be to take the money. But you’d be fool, for two reasons.

Uno: Even if you win, you’re disparaging the game’s sacredness for financial gain, something you’d have to live with for the rest of your life. And unless you’re a corporate lawyer like White Hot Eboy, I don’t see that happening. Call me naive, but I maintain that Tim Thomas has trouble sleeping at night.

Either that, or he sleeps too well.

One or the other.

Dos: Game over.

Really, both options suck. And it’s the same way with LeBron. Bet against him and either you fail to recognize the essence of the game’s best young player, or you’re eliminated. So sit back, relax and let him rock the Mike right.

Now, I don’t know if LeBron James was the MVP of the league this season, and I don’t care one way or the other. In fact, the whole idea of an MVP flies in the metaphorical face of a team game. Two full years ago I made the case that Bron-Bron was the league’s MVP. If I gave a sh*t, I’d revisit it by adding paragraphs to that tower of babble, claiming that he was already robbed literally while everyone argued that Kobe was screwed in the “career collective” sense (congrats to Kobe, by the way; much deserved–any of the fantastic four could have won it and I wouldn’t have cared). Here’s an excerpt from what I wrote then:

[H]e took an entire city stuck in a stupor of fandom’s foremost suffering this side of the L.A. Clippers and rose the existing standard by himself—by passing the ball! That’s an MVP. Flip Murray for 3. A game winner that turned a season around. That’s LeBron, respecting the double team and making the right decision. Learning how to stick the fourth quarter dagger. That’s LeBron. Flip Murray’s next contract. That’s LeBron. Lil’ Flip’s next concert. That’s probably LeBron, too. Flip Saunders possibly flipping his lid in the second round. That’s LeBron. What about all of Cleveland defiantly flipping a certain finger at a dark history of losing and embarrassment? That’s LeBron. What about me overusing the word “flip” merely to try and make a point? That’s LeBron. What about Larry Hughes re-emerging from injury? His best games were played when LeBron’s ankle needed a break. The confidence gained? Crazy as it sounds, that’s LeBron.

In the first Links game report I ever wrote, I coined the term “Brontageous™”—revolutionary excellence proving to be contagious, as if his teammates were catching a behind the back, no look cold—because I felt that it was the perfect way to describe a young man whose game had an overarching influence on his teammates, and, more importantly, made them better. That’s an MVP.

(Footnote: Brontageous: It’s outrageous.)

(Footnote II: If you’re surprised that Wally World went Waterworld from three in game 6 or that Boobie started lactating when nourishment was necessary, you really haven’t been paying close enough attention over the years…No offense.)

Ben and I were talking recently about the inordinate amount of hate (though maybe “disrespect disproportional to overall accomplishment” is a better way to put it) Bron receives in these parts. This is interesting because a long, long time ago, yesterday afternoon, deep in an imaginary internets cave covered in SLAMups and vintage kicks, a debate between the 4 horsemen (former and current SLAM E-I-C’s was taking place…)

Tony G (Jordan Era): This is the basketball bible. You know the rules. Respect the game; don’t shit on the parchment.

Russ B (Shaq/Kobe Era):“When all is said and done he has the ability to be the best player in NBA history. But the “King James” nickname is all too appropriate. His sense of entitlement is astounding. The expectation is that everyone will just bow down and get out of the way. How DARE DeShawn Stevenson say he’s overrated! (Which he is, actually.) He’s the Xerxes of the NBA. Unfortunately for the Wizards, the Spartans lost too.”

Ryan J (Pistons/Spurs Era): “Funny, I thought LeBron was grooming himself by averaging 21, 6 and 6 as a rookie … averaging 30, 8 and 7 this year … leading a crap team to the NBA Finals … putting up a triple-double in his first ever playoff game … averaging 28, 8 and 7 in 39 career playoff games … being the youngest player in League history to reach 1,000, 2,000, 3,000, 4,000, 5,000, 6,000, 7,000, and 8,000 career points … scoring the last 25 points against Detroit in Game 5 of the ECF last year … joining Oscar Robertson as one of only two players in NBA history to average at least 27, 6 and 6 over three consecutive seasons … joining Oscar, Mike and The Logo as the only players ever to average at least 31, 7 and 6 for a season … lemme know if you need more … ’cause there’s LOTS more.”

“Bissinger”, as Russ was dubbed by his argument adversary, and Ass-Kissinger, went back and forth like that for a while, debating the merits of “King James.” Current SLAM E-I-C Ben Osborne tried not to allow the tornado of spit-fire to consume him, but it was too late.

It’s funny because SLAM is LEBRON–at least we’re supposed to be. If we’re not showing the right amount of perspective on a national/international level, then who will?

LeBron’s rep will continue, outside of Ohio, to be that of this perfect machine whose perfection many resent because it makes them insecure about themselves. There’s validity to this. Who can look at the way they perform their job and then look at LeBron and feel good, let alone a sense of self-worth defining accomplishment? It’s impossible. It gets worse for people looking to vent–some internalize their feelings while others are offended immediately–when LeBron starts referring to the Cavs as “his team” and talks about his all-encompassing importance to “my team” in the media because he’s so young. Who does that young whippersnapper think he is?

Answer: The 23 year old captain of the team. People outside of Ohio should focus more on paying attention to his precocious leadership skills instead of looking down on him for having the gall to be a leader. (Ironic note: people do this because they are sheep, not leaders and because any true self-reflection can be damning.)

It goes something like this:

Non Clevelander 1: Yo, dude. Good to see you again

Non Clevelander 2: Yeah, it’s great to see you.

Non Clevelander 1: This is my friend Jose.

Non Clevelander 2: Oh my God, where did you get those shoes, Jose? Those shoes are awesome. Wow. Totally jealous of your kicks. What do you do, Jose?

Jose: When I’m not building things–like the fountain of youth I started outside of the Rose Garden in Portland recently–I’m a Partner in a law firm that represents the welfare of people vacationing in Dubai. I also really love to paint. Actually, some of my work is having a gallery showing in Monaco in a few weeks. You should come. We’ll fly you out.

Non Clevelander 1: Tell him what else you do, Jose.

Jose [blushing]: I run an online limo service.

Non Clevelander 1: No, dude. The other thing.

Jose: By night I’m actually Ryan Gosling.

Non Clevelander 2: F*ck you, Jose.

Jose: I don’t get it. I just invited you to come fly with me? Oh, this is about you, isn’t it.

Non Clevelander 2: Why are you bragging so much?

Jose: You just asked me what I did for a living?

Non Clevelander 1: You know what? The more I think about it, I can’t believe you’d be that arrogant, Jose. What are we, your charity cases? You know what? We’ve decided that you think you’re better than us. Stop being such an elitist and fly your G-4 back to Teterboro. Really. Scram, Kanye, I’m sick of your attitude.

Jose: What I do?

Because people enjoy self-esteem, they hate to feel better; it’s childish. LeBron’s modern cocktail of on-court success and off-court simplicity is labeled “boring” because he doesn’t chew straws (highly underrated, try it sometime) or pretend to jump over Aston Martins. Meanwhile, basketball fans that love verbal sparring often forget he could blast on Martians.

We’ve gone from mystifying Magic&Bird, to deifying a persona Michael created, to nitpicking Kobe to bits, to completely dehumanizing LeBron James. Part of this is because LeBron is smart and knows to keep his name out of your mouth (except for when it comes to something like putting DeShawn Stevenson in his place, which is what made the situation so unique). But seriously, the progression of the causal NBA fan’s superstar judgment is analogous to someone asking for a four count and the response being:

ONE…TWO…THREE…NEGATIVE EIGHT!

Perfect LeBron is Jay corollary quote:

“They’re all actors
Lookin at themselves in the mirror backwards
Can’t even face themselves, don’t fear no rappers
They’re all weirdos, DeNiros in practice
So don’t believe everything your earlobe captures; it’s mostly backwards
Unless it happens to be as accurate as me
And everything said in song you happen to see
Then, actually, believe half of what you see

None of what you hear, even if it’s spat by me”

(Jay Z, “Ignorant Sh*t, American Gangster)

The unnecessary disrespect snowballs. Which is why I feel many picked DC to finally prevail over the Cavs. Was it possible? Sure. Impossible is nothing. (Actually, in a recession, impossible is money, but I digress…) Was it probable? Hell to the no. Selfishly, many wanted to believe it was, belittling LeBron’s supporting cast and casting aspersions (convenient psychological diversions?) on last year’s accomplishments–luck based though they may have partially been–because the team regressed slightly during a meaningless regular season while adjusting to injuries and trades.

Truth: If LeBron hadn’t missed 5 games in late November and early December, all losses, Cleveland would have matched or posted a win total similar to last year despite the persistent adjustment period.

In chess, you’re supposed to protect The King, not do everything in your power to try and fail to expose it.

Get over the fact that he’s better than you at what he does, and grow up. Or turn off Mozart when you’re trying to think better.

–Two open shots for San Antonio to start things up. One goes in. That’s about right.

–Immediately after I spend 15 seconds wondering about bad Boris Diaw karma, Diaw picks up his first foul and then Kurt Thomas drills a jumper. Diaw atones by hitting a cutting STAT for an And-one opportunity (ft missed). Apparently the BD karma isn’t transitive.

–Good help D by STAT on Tim Duncan, but then the loose ball lands in Kurt Thomas’ hands, eight feet away from the rim. Stat just looks at him. Thomas drills the shorty, word to Salma Hayek and the Spurs are up 6-4 (rollin in my…). That play says so much about so many things, I’m bursting at the proverbial seams. Wait no–Salma Hayek again. Yikes, we’re two minutes and I’ve already mentioned Karma and a hot actress from Dogma. What’s next a Street Fighter Dhalsim / Dharma and Greg cross reference? Quit while you’re ahead, quit while you’re ahead, quit while you’re ahead, you’re behind.

F*ck.

–Diaw drills a jumper. My confidence in myself rises exponentially.

–Can’t wait to play soccer against Steve Nash this summer–tomorrow. Too soon?

–Shaq and Stat have both missed dunks. Here’s a sentance with two typoz just so I can join the symbolic party.

–Shaq looks hulking–in a bad way.

–16-11 halfway through the quarter.

–A flurry of good D and missed shots. Tony Parker is going at it. His testosterone must have been bottled up in the Garden of Eva.

–Sheer Speculation: Raising kids has softened Steve Nash’s external competitive fire. To which I say, good for him. Really. It’s important to remember what’s important in life sometimes, especially if you’re still working your ass off to be a good father (more speculation, but I think I have a good read on that) and do the best you can at work.

–Openly lobbying for the potentially open Phoenix Suns coaching vacancy, Doug Collins challenges the validity of the Hack-A-Shaq. Just kidding, Doug. Or am I? In the words of a former teammate: “Oooooh!”

–Brian Skinner replaces Shaq and the Spurs go to a hack-a-Skinner. Let me reach into the Wu-Tang lyrical sperm bank here. “The combination made my eyes bleed.” Skinner hits the first freebie. A kitten is spared. He loses out to an unfriendly bounce on the second. The cutest kitten in the history of the world no can haz cheezburger because now iz cheeseburger.

–If Tony Parker is Peter Pan, then Boris Diaw, with this pretty go to post move of his, has suddenly morphed into Captain Hook. Manu Ginobili is Ru-fi-ohhhhh and Shaq is Smee. We are nothing if not purveyors of analogies and metaphors here at good ole SlamOnline. The Spurs as the good guys? Chew on that…

–Geriatric Shot Bob misses a 3.

30-26, Spurs after one. TP is on pace for 52.

Second Quarter

–The Suns go on a 14-4 run to get back on the right side of things.

–Shaq trying to convert a stick-back in traffic while surrounded is damn near impossible to describe. It’s like an aging Black Widow caught in its own web. Mind and body are not fully on the same page.

–The Spurs, as is their prerogative–they are, after all, still the champs–take a timely Timeout and take the lead back.

–Ime Udoka ties it with a 3, then gives his team the lead with short jumper. 45-43.

–Like all good teams, the Spurs finish the quarter well, reeling off 7 in a row, punctuated by Tony Parker’s fantastic 3 point play after another judiciously called Timeout. “Oh mine Pop-pa…” Can’t say enough about Pop, or TP for that matter; silky smooth and quickly getting the job done.

–Heading into the half, consider the following TNT-shown Phoenix related stats:

–I would love to be a part of a Kevin Harlan/Doug Collins broadcast team as a third wheel named “Bug Collins”. The job would consist of playing devil’s advocate in response to anything Collins says and trying to annoy him with exacerbated Harlan impersonations. Not that I think Collins is wrong often; it would just be way too much fun given DC’s laid back nice guy delivery.

–Fusion video game idea for the good folks at EA sports: the combination of the NBA All Stars skills challenge and Cruisin’ USA. You would never want to race anybody who was Tony Parker on an open highway course.

Fourth Quarter

–It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s…Michael Phelps? Shaq goes diving through the lane like it’s a swimming pool and he’s 26. He lands among the photogs.

–I never understood this Shaq, “he makes them when it matters” free throw discussion. Excuse the obviousness here: In a close game they all matter because they all alter the final point total. You don’t need to set yourself up for pressure if you take care of it when there is none.

–A Duncan floater. 81-79.

–Shaq comes back and draws a foul. It’s like 2002 up in this b*tch.

–Nash drains a high arcing midrange pull up.

–You want efficiency? Tony Parker, the best player on the floor all night hits his first jumper. At least according to Kevin Harlan. 85-82

–A Nash triple gives us our first Kevin Harlan larynx check of the evening. Larynx awareness is sponsored by Hall’s Cough Drops, Suzie from Curb Your Enthusiasm and the little girl that lives in the apartment below me that never shuts the f*ck up. I would consider calling CPS, but, well, you know…

–Harlan treats one STAT block like a Dave Chappelle Block party.

–Useful Arms Bob helps dislodge the ball from Steve Nash–uncharacteristically stricken with a sever case whooping cough during the game’s most important moments. This leads to a TP fast break and a trip to the line. Like **ea**-*e*, he splits the pair.

My online homies: apologies for my invisible coverage of this series. Thankfully, the postseason is just getting started and Lang, Sam and the rest have provided tons of content. You’ll be hearing from me with greater regularity starting…NOW. As such, I figured the best way to recap a matchup of overall invisible competitiveness would be to recap how my coverage became invisible.

Game 1: Excuse (Spent the Afternoon Giving Rival Baseball Fans An Ear Exam): Missed the instant-classic because I was in Philadelphia being a raucous Mets fan (at least according to the New York Times and MetsBlog).

Extra rambling: You might, in fact, one day find yourself at Shea Stadium staring at the back of a T-shirt that implies I intimately know a relative of a well known former Mets pitcher. Just to clarify: for multiple legitimate reasons, nothing happened, but it’s a funny story. Another clarifying point: though I wore a shirt that says “Philly sucks”, I very much like Philadelphia; I’d even go as far to say it’s an underrated town…now you could be sitting there saying, “Jake, that’s ridiculous–you went to a baseball game on day 1 of the NBA playoffs. To which I’d respond a) I committed to it back in February and still almost backed out b) it’s a long second season and c) I only have one local team that I exclusively support unconditionally without media bias (Nets) or general indifference (Jets) running interference. 20+ orange and blue compatriots taking a bus to tailgate on an 83 degree day? Exactly. I could have written a short book about the experience).

Game 2 Excuse (Rod Benson Ate My Homework): I didn’t end up giving my roommate enough leeway time with our game 2 DVR’ing. So that sucked. Considered doing a True-Hoopian or Ball-Truthian post that reflected what the internets were saying, but I’m neither a shark nor a biter, so like a Beatle walking past Micky D’s, I let it be. Also: I trust that those who read Slamonline but occasionally feel the need for something else peep what Skeets and Henry do on the regular. (Bonus inside post message to Yahoo’s Kelly Dwyer: If you ever have back problems, get at me. My best friend is a rising chiropractor. We call him Burt Backcrack.)

Game 3 Excuse (Boddingtons and Bitches*):Game 3 took place this Friday. We had it on in the background, but it sucked. By *it*, I mean the “The Suns” and “the game itself”. The Spurs were indeed clinical in breaking down their “rivals” (it’s a one way street, at the intersection of “letdown” and “really?”). Tony Parker went for 41, 12 and 3 turnovers; this Vincent Thomas post spontaneously combusted. (Related, I was talking to an acquaintance on Saturday night whose wife grew up with TP and Thierry Henry. What I could tell you about her is infinitely more interesting that what went down Friday night in Phoenix. By the way, you know, like, the one time of year that a Cactus needs water? Didn’t happen.

Raja Bell hit a few threes before I started dozing off on my couch. The Suns lived to see another day. America, where we fail horribly and then masochistically prolong our impending failure!

The Suns were up 28 heading into the fourth quarter. Boris Diaw (20-10-8) was two assists shy of a triple double. Shaq got his double double on and the Suns held the Spurs to 39% from the floor. It’s really tempting not to completely write this game off as mere bump in the road for the Spurs. The excitement junkie prays that Phoenix finds their form. Bruce Bowen finished with a -35 plus/minus, which is as awful as it gets. Boris Diaw and Shaq gave Steve Nash some help containing Parker’s speed.

EXCUSE SUMMATION: Coverage is a funny bird. Like perspective, when you have it you don’t always appreciate its simple joys because you’re so busy working for it. When you don’t have it, you watch a movie like Sicko and realize that you can live just as miserably without it.

The coverage having turned out this way (Game 5 thus far withstanding), I guess it’s appropriate that I’ve covered the series this way. I didn’t get an “A” in journalism in Spain for nothing.

The series is mime. Game 5 tonight. I plan to watch it…
*=Colloquialism

The stairs wound up to the roof at The Sports Club/LA as some of NYC’s elite took advantage of 2008′s nicest day thus far by getting their tans on. The stairs then wound back down a floor to the court where 16 wide-eyed 16 year-olds (say it 5 times fast) were getting their first taste of an American basketball practice. The young internationals engaged in fun to watch drills involving tennis balls–one tossing it back and forth while sliding and another practicing defensive footwork (“fast feet!”) around the moving, yellowish-green fuzzies–before breaking into groups and running dummy offenses. A camera crew busily followed them everywhere.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but not until he was pointed out did I recognize Enes Kanter, one of the Turkish bigs that helped Turkey defeat the United States in heartbreaking fashion at the Albert Schweitzer International Basketball tournament. If he progresses at his current rate, Kanter could very well be a lottery pick. How did Kanter and the rest land in NYC for the first time? It’s pretty interesting. From the April 14th Jordan Brand press release:

Thirteen of the players were selected through the Jordan Brand International tour which was held from February 23 through March 2 at regional sites in Vilnius, Lithuania, Rome, Italy, and Athens, Greece. These camps featured 96 of the top 15-16 year old players from all over Europe. The European players will be joined in New York by two players from Africa and one from Australia.

As it was explained, this means that the players who most exemplified the combination of work ethic and talent that defined Michael Jordan are getting their first taste of basketball and culture in the United States.

Rosters:

White Jerseys:

Joan Creus -PG- Spain

Evaldas Aniulis -PG- Lithuania

Edgaras Ulanovas -Wing- Lithuania

Tomer Bar Even -G- Israel

Miguel Cervera -SG – Spain

Perica Bobic -PG/SG- Serbia

Baye Moussa Keita -PF- Senegal

Enes Kanter -PF- Turkey

Head Coach: Herman Harried, Lake Clifton High School (Baltimore, MD)

Black Jerseys

Vytenis Cizauskas -PG- Lithuania

Hugh Greenwood -PG- Australia

Fabio Mian -SG- Italy

Petar Lambic -G- Serbia

Joan Tomas -SG- Spain

Amaury Gorgermans -PF- Belgium

Jonas Valanciunas -PF- Lithuania

Ethasor Raphael A. -PF/C- Nigeria

Head Coach: Raphael Chillious, Former Coach of South kent School (South Kent, CT)

Three years from now, do you want to be the guy that saw the next big thing during his first game on NBA soil, or do you want to tell your boys you read about him on a blog? The triple header starts Saturday at 4pm with the international game. Be there.

After Jim and I had gotten to the airport and got most of the guys settled–Coach Willard and Jeff Withey were locked out of their rooms at 4:30AM–I chilled with a few of the guys in a waiting area outside of the Lufthansa terminal at the Frankfurt airport and helped Brendan Lane, now on crutches, with his bags.

Erving Walker asked me, more or less, why I got up at the @$$crack of dawn to ride with the team when I wasn’t due back at the Frankfurt airport for another 14 hours. There’s a complex answer and there’s a simple answer and both will be given.

Complex: As per usual, there was confusion as to when I would be allowed to stay on the army base until. Check out time was at 11, but I had a pass that allowed me to go on and off the base until 3:30pm (or so I thought). After waffling as to whether or not I should choose sleep over my final minutes with these kids, I took Coach Hollins’ advice and rode down with the team (it was never really in doubt, but I was really tired).

This choice was made easier by Jim, who in all of his legendarily confusing glory, called his superior and reported back that I was getting kicked off the base at 11AM. I was under the impression that we were to stay with the kids until the last plane took off sometime after 13:00. This meant if I went with the kids I was gone. (Of course, we returned at 7:45AM and I took a nap and met a friend for lunch before returning to the airport with the New Zeleand team at 4pm.)

Now that you’ve waded through all of that, here’s what’s really important: I had to be on that bus with those kids because I’ve never had a more fulfilling, three dimensional experience as a writer/journalist. That includes listening to Allen Iverson dispense advice like a wise old man in Denver and asking LeBron about college.

Getting to know these young Americans was overwhelmingly rewarding. There isn’t a bad apple in the bunch; what Charles Barkley would refer to as a “tr-uh-bl knucklehead.” Their accomplishments show how they gelled and made their country proud.

As Lieutenant Colonel Jeffrey Fletcher said, “I’m especially proud of how our young men came together as a team as the tournament grew in intensity. They fought hard against seasoned teams and walked away having earned the respect of players and fans alike.”

The trip was special because it was free of the need for an over-exposure that defines high school athletics coverage. I wasn’t in Germany to treat these kids like pieces of meat or stick a tape recorder in their face, even though, like a butcher behind the counter at a Deli, I could tell talk forever about what specifically makes each of them different. For all intents and purposes, I was on the team, getting my Jack Mac on.

The cool part is that I didn’t have to write a book about them. I was able to, for the most part, adhere to the code of the team. As it is, I’d rather get a 3-D picture of these young men and pocket the majority of the memories than to be forced into writing about shit that would draw attention to 18 year olds that already draw enough as it is (SLAM is guilty as charged, but at least we’re in the business of showing love).

And that’s the kicker for me. It took a diverse team full of 17-18 year-olds, donning Team USA jerseys and balling their asses off on a US Army base 3,000 miles away, to wake the slumbering patriot inside of me. An understanding of national pride that had so long been suppressed by cynicism and embarrassment resulting from humiliating recent political decision-making rose from out of my core. I couldn’t shake the smile.

Two days later, as I stood mere feet away from the track where Jesse Owens raced past Adolf Hitler’s super-nazis on their own soil (100M lauf Owens, 200M lauf Owens, it reads on the wall at Berlin’s Olympic Stadium) I remembered that America has a past–and if these kids are any indication–a future that it can be proud of.

So there you go, Erving. I’m proud to be an American and I’m proud that you and your teammates are my fellow countrymen.

Cashmere Wright is singing a song that’s damn near older than he is. “Ghetto Superstar… that is what you are…coming from afar…reaching for the stars…” The reason I bring this up is because there’s nothing else fun or entertaining to say about the first half against Australia.

Aside from a conspicuous absence of early effort—that goes for the American support in the crowd as well—the US had a really hard time playing without Releford (knee) and Erik Murphy. Releford is the team’s best defensive player and a good finisher that makes the opposing defense work. Without his athleticism to give Australia fits on both sides of the ball, the young Americans sputtered out the gate and fell behind double digits in a hurry.

Not only did the Australians run roughshod over a struggling US team, unlike Turkey early, they buried their outside shots. (Note to any D-1 college coaches reading this: his name is Jorden Page; he’s a pg with the heart of a lion, and you should be calling him. He even looks like Stephen Curry! The same goes for Matthew Dellavedova except for the point guard looking like Stephen Curry part.)

America’s depth and toughness issues really took a hit when Lane went down with an extremely badly sprained ankle in the first half; so bad, in fact, that he had to go to the hospital. Walker and a suddenly dunk-happy Jeff Withey (Arizona)—it was like Popeye found his spinach—spearheaded an impressive mini run in the second half that saw America close within a few of the Aussies. The early lead just turned out too much to overcome.

Fact is, it was a bigger deal for the Aussies to beat America and take third than for the reverse to happen. The numbers (33% from the floor, 21 turnovers for Team USA) don’t lie. Withey’s 8-10 for 16 and 8, almost all in the second half after an earful from Hollins, and 15 from Wally Judge were the two bright spots.

Greece defeated Turkey in the final. Incredibly, a riot did not break out. For those who don’t know, Greece and Turkey have long had historical beef. The day before we were regaled with the story of a Greece-Turkey game at the Schweitzer tournament in the late 80′s during which the fans were so out of control, they broke the stands. This was a peaceful affair, won by the best team in the tournament.

Names to keep an eye out for include the aforementioned Deniz Kilicli, Enes Kanter, Nikolaos Pappas, Konstantinous Papanikolaou and Konstantinous Sloukas.

That night, after the long on-court awards ceremony for all of the tournament participants and a touching meeting that Team USA had with some very important army people, an impromptu Easter Dinner broke out thanks to the marvelous cooking of a hair-dresser named Miss Eve. Ham, collard greens, mac and cheese, cornbread, etc. I’m still thinking about it.

The food was so good that Jesus Christ rose from his grave to join Team USA*.

“This mac and cheese is on point,” Jesus said, shoveling food into his mouth at a rapid pace.

“Hey, Jesus,” Cash Wright said. “You ever talk to Young Jeezy?”

“Where do you think he got his name?” Christ responded.

“Jesus, is Kansas going to win the national championship this year?” inquired Releford, soon to be a Jayhawk.

“While I can’t quite answer that, I will tell you that this will be the first time all four number one seeds make it to the Final Four.”

“What about Stephen Curry?” I asked.

“He will be fine. LeBron knows his name and will one day need a shooter. There is a plan for all of you, my children.”

“Oh, Wally,” Jesus said, as he got up to bounce to another dinner. “Don’t let the haters get you down. They’re just haters; it’s what they do.”

“But that’s life.” The words are from Coach Hollins. Since the kids were told not to complain about their loss to Turkey, I will. Not because it’s necessarily the right thing to do, but because I was on the bench for the semifinals and feel for what these kids just experienced. I was just as upset (probably more so) after this loss than any USA World Cup game–and people that read this website know how much I love the beautiful game.

There’s really no other way around it: Team USA got jobbed. The call against Walker on what would have been a lead-taking 3 with seconds remaining was a charge—a push off, I guess. Hollins’ appropriate reaction was to kick a chair as gently as possible. It was one of those calls; if it hadn’t been made, nobody would have noticed or said anything. The referees shouldn’t blow that whistle because they’re making the game about them. I fully cop to writing with a bias (hell, I was on the bench, screaming my @$$ off, wearing the team shoes and t-shirt). Still, it was a stupid call.

Part of the frustration comes from watching Turks pulls some tricks on a comparatively unassuming, innocent American roster. This trickery put key players into foul trouble for most of the game. Brendan Lane, Team USA’s most talented frontcourt player, was, more or less, barred from playing tonight. Lane, who you want to pencil into the tall shooter mold until he grabs 5 rebounds in 7 minutes and you realize there’s a lot more to his game than you could simply stereotype, picked up two quick first half fouls. He knew he had to be careful in the second half. So he was. Didn’t matter.

On his fourth foul, the player he was guarding in the post just arm-hooked him. The fact that he was an innocent bystander seemed to be lost on the refs. When he came back to the bench, he looked like he had been violated. In a certain sense, he was. If I had whipped out a polygraph right then and there, and asked the question, “is there any chance you even came remotely close to fouling him?” Lane would have said “no,” and passed with flying colors.

Those calls and the way the ball bounces—two Walker 3’s that could have tied the game rimmed out, one was ¾’s of the way down—and fatigue from the previous day’s win loomed large in defeat.

Not that you’re going to get sympathy from army folks. Many felt that the team should have hit its physical peak right around last night. To which I say, sorry they’re 17-18 years old. The tank was half empty—a fear Hollins admitted he had after the game—because the tank was half empty.

The other side of the coin is that you can’t expect to win a tight game if you miss ten free throws (12-22) and fail to close out quarters successfully.

Even so, while there’s no crying in the Army, I’ll be damned if I don’t remember the following little story for the rest of my life:

After Australia and Greece went out to warm up for the second semi-final, I had to take a leak, so I went into the bathroom in the visiting locker room. Just as I was finishing up my business, my main man, Sinan, a German basketball trainer, got to a stall. Seconds later, as I was washing my hands, I turned back to Sinan.

“F*cking refs,” I said angrily. I turned to my left and looked out into the locker room. The refs were standing right there, five feet away, getting dressed.

I momentarily felt bad that they might have heard what I said. Then I heard one of them say to the other one, “I gave you one.” Not sure what that meant, but it reinforced the reality that I don’t care for them.

Game thoughts:

–Aside from the Americans struggling at the line and Turks bricking 12 out of 13 threes, the first half was amateur basketball played the right way. Could both teams have done a little better on D? Sure, but they were going back and forth and the game was hotly contested.

–I never thought I’d see the day when I saw a 6”8 Turkish kid whose go to move was a running left handed sky hook. Meet Deniz Kilicli. Even more ridiculous, Kilicli, who dropped 23 and 10 on the Americans, hit the first up and under lefty sky hook I’ve ever seen. Was it the first in basketball history? Doubt it, but still…

–Walker finished with 30, Releford 17 and Wright with 13.

Day thoughts:

Went to practice in the morning with the team. Helped the kids run through some drills and shot around with the team. Watched the coaches prep some drills and talked to Coach Hollins about Portland Trail Blazers practice fines from the late 70’s (Hollins said there was a 5-minute rule with leeway for being late, but after that the fines started piling up. Apparently, Bill Walton and Maurice Lucas stole the fine book once. Hollins also pointed out that the Bill Walton you see on TV isn’t necessarily the Bill Walton that you’d get in real life, which is good perspective).

I started shooting 3’s as the rest of the guys started getting changed and ready to leave. Wally Judge and others started chanting down “3-2-1” as I ran up to fire. The first shot missed. The second one went down. As I walked off smiling Judge noted out loud to everyone, “You were down 4!” Judge has that DC-Assault B-Easy humor on lock.

I would have gone to play spades with Judge, Walker and Wright but I had to interview some people for another story I’m working on.

–I hopped in the van to get a clearance pass to be able to leave the base and drink beer in Mannheim on Friday night. On the way, Jim and John—who hitched a ride to the store on the way—saw a dude about to get in this crazy-looking car he was driving. John asserted that he was indeed he was a black man; Joe didn’t believe him. “Man, he’s whiter than Stuttgart,” Jim said.

I bring this up because I want the phrase “whiter than Stuttgart” to be added the Slamonline lexicon. I’m just saying…

–Certain teams at this tournament should be ashamed of the way they smell. Good grief. Is there deodorant in Croatia, or was the lack thereof a defense mechanism? This is a legitimate question, not a joke.

–The German announcer has particular trouble with Cashmere Wright’s first name. He introduces him every game as what sounds like “Cash Mayor”, which sounds like either John Mayer’s accountant or Clarence Royce. Still, it’s not all that offensive.

Diminutive dynamite, Erving Walker, misses a three pointer. The loose ball caroms off the rim and heads towards the sideline. Walker beelines for the rock and barely saves it before running out of real estate and into Spain’s bench. Seconds later, his hustle karma pays immediate dividends and he gets the ball back on the wing, elbow extended. He lofts a similar trey. It goes down like a shot of bamboo liquor: smooth. The cozy, intimate gym filled with American army personnel, assorted Germans and other internationals explodes. 98-97, USA. The greatest youth track meet I’ve ever seen live is entering its kick.

(Think this is an exaggeration? Let’s ask Dick McCann, who coached Team USA for 31 years for his thoughts: “As I watched last night’s game, I checked back to the greatest game I coached in and it had to be the 1989 championship game against Lithuania. We played it down in the ice arena. We beat Lithuania by two points, with a 3 point shot with 2 seconds left on the clock. It wasn’t as exciting as last night’s game, though.”)

The next time down the floor, Walker is ripped. He and the opposing point guard end up on the floor. He’s assessed a foul. Bloody and uber-competitive, he briefly argues the call and picks up a tech; compounding the problem, he has to go to the bench to clean up his blood. Walker’s game is straight New York soul, an excellent combination of speed, visual awareness and shot-making. On the last night, I would nickname him, “Straight Robinson.” He would soon return.

On the other side, Spain is being led by Alberto Jodar, a dude whose last name is one vowel off from meaning “f*ck” (“joder”) in Spanish. We’ll call him Jaime Fack, for Feick’s sake. Fack, like his facking bomb-dropping amigos, has been torching the Americans from the perimeter. (Being on a military base for this shootout only felt right…)

Fack is the opposite of Walker. Tall and lanky, he’s a system player that does his job and does it well. It’s only ironic then that Fack ended up at the line with his team up one and the game hanging in the balance. He’d been a key cog in an arsenal that had been facking America inside-out—like, say, a recession—and now he was alone on the line, asked to handle the weight himself. La Puta Madre (the Spanish tend to blame her a lot…) must have put his brain on lock because he choked. Twice.

Walker quickly takes it the other way—all the way. “I coasted on them,” he said with a chuckle at practice the next day. (“Yeah, I was open,” Releford jokingly added.)

Walker’s layup puts the US up 102-101, and the GI’s are going nuts, water-buggin for the dude that one of them referred to afterwards as, “a Ferrari.” (Enjoy your need for speed, Billy Donovan.) Five seconds later it’s over, a hard fought win and a berth in the semifinals eked out by the better team.

Stoic New Yorker that he is, Walker finally cracks a smile. It only took him 32 points (12-22), 9 Assists, 8 rebounds, 6 turnovers and 3 steals to do so. Little army brats rush the court to get to know their new heroes a little bit better. A girl nick-named “bubbles” is trying to spit game at various players, but nobody’s interested.

The US trio of Walker (Tinier cross pollination of Monta and BD), Cashmere Wright (a big shot making southerner with Bill Raftery endorsed onions…Captain Jack) and Travis Releford (a more T-Mobile—two way—J-Rich…clinical finishing on the break and stellar on D; 13-17 from the floor for a cool 30 and 6, not to mention 4 steals) set a pace reminiscent of a high school version of the ’07 Warriors.

The Americans showed incredible resolve by clawing back from 9+ twice. Our young guns came back despite cooling off some in the second half because they were able to slow Spain’s hot hands by committing on close-outs. The first half saw them consistently cheat too far on dribble-drives, leaving shooters ample room with which to work. This was particularly problematic because, though Spain wreaked havoc with O-Board stick backs—another result of this getting caught “half and half” (think defensive spilt milk)—the Spanish never proved that they could consistently take it to the rack and finish at the rim.

Spain shot 53% (50% from 3)in the first half as a result. Fittingly, it was Walker’s buzzer-beating halftime 3 that seemed to give the American’s hope before a concise and impacting speech by coach Hollins that helped boost spirits and lent proper understanding to their situation.

Thoughts:

–Talk on the bus briefly centered on the McDonald’s game from last night. It’s ironic that a tournament (Albert Schweitzer) that is showcasing the globalization of basketball is robbed of talent by the most globalizing corporate force in the world.

–Marco Leon of Spain won the bi-annual European, “Foul? Who me? You’re kidding” award for the evening.

–While talking with Sven Simon, my main man from Five Magazine in Germany, I realized that Marc Gasol is Kevin Dillon.

–Late in the first half, number #9 from Spain, Nacho Llovet, was getting physical with the Americans, swatting a shot and making his presence felt. Things were momentarily set straight when Judge boomed on him.

At halftime, I let Stover know that Llovet, who looks like a strange combination of Frankenstein and Frankberry, shouldn’t be allowed to mess with the bigger Americans. Stover responded by anchoring the American paint, goal-tending a few shots, and doing an excellent job of making his presence felt. Later at dinner, I would ask that Stover refrain from goal-tending the rice.

From the day:

Jim knocked on my door at 9:45AM, two minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I had planned on going to practice, which the bus left for at 10, but Jim saw me in my jet-lagged haze and gave me a long sermon about the importance of jet-lag recovery.

I realized we were talking about practice (we were talking about practice—man, we were talking about practice), so I nodded and went back to go to sleep. I don’t remember if I konked out for a few minutes or not, but a little while later I found myself fast working on the previous day’s diary (my own practice). I shot out a few emails and chilled, looking at the grey German sky. I shoved a mini-muffin in my face before sloppily pouring some Raisin Bran out of a mini-box into my mouth. Breakfast.

Then, I went for a walk and was briefly detained for not having proper ID on me. This was a stunning military-life lesson.

Sir, where is your passport?

My passport is in my room; if I lose my passport I can’t return home.

Sir, do you have any ID on you?

Why would I carry my wallet when I don’t have to buy anything and I’m in a contained space?

Sir, where is your escort?

I called him. His phone was busy, thus I went to go find him so I could get lunch.

Sir, this is absurd.

Yes, yes it is.

As both sides stood there, glaring at the ridiculousness of the other, I realized it was all about perspective. When you’re used to certain things in America, you take them for granted–and vice-versa when you’re used to rules in the military. While I don’t agree with decisions being made politically in this country, military life is military life regardless, and it reminded me of the speech by Colonel Jessup at the end of A Few Good Men:

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the very blanket of the very freedom I provide, then question the manner in which I provide it. I prefer you said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand to post. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.

–Because they deserved it after such a stunning win, Jim took Team USA out to a classy Chinese restaurant at a nearby mall. We got there and took up residence in the back booths and some surrounding tables. Seated in the corner was a German man and his date. Dressed rather scandalously–she looked alright, if a bit “easy”–and surrounded by a group of famished 17-18 year-olds, she became the indirect–peek, look away, peek, look away–center of attention.

Finally, as the food was arriving and Jim started busting out a celebratory tune of sorts, the man got all up in Jim’s face, insinuating that he was mocking his date. Jim and a few of the guys on the team speculated that nobody would have to be so uptight if he wasn’t on a date with a prostitute. I thought the dude was just a drunk, quasi-racist, tight-@$$, but there may have been something to the who (ho!) theory. After all, it was noted on my ride from the airport that there was a Red Light district in Mannheim.

The US victory over Spain may have been the most thrilling basketball game I’ve ever seen. Considering all factors (the gym’s intimacy, the national support and the two comebacks), I’ll no doubt remember it for the rest of my life. I hope these kids never forget it, either.

(Picture of Erving Walker pointing the blood on his jersey appears courtesy of Five Magazine)

I was told that when I got off the plane there would be a person in American military gear waiting for me. The first dude I saw through the other side of the gate was wearing US Army camouflage, so naturally I pointed at him and figured we’d be on our way. He was there to pick up his parents, who moments earlier had been messed with somewhat inappropriately by German customs officials. Yeah, talk about awkward…

The plane landed early, so I waited. Some dudes who looked like ballers, most likely from the German team in pro team Frankfurt, picked up a girl from an incoming flight. I chilled in the waiting area for a little while and then scoped the place out for a dude with my name on giant tag. Still no sign of anyone.

Very often, people are late getting to airports—it’s pretty normal, actually—but for some reason I assumed that, because I was being picked up by an official member of the US Army, they had to be on time. Being on time is an incredibly important part of army life, right? When I attended West Point basketball camp as youngster, if we were late to practice, we did wall sits.

So after about a half an hour, given my fatigue, hunger and anticipation, I panicked a little bit. (Note: A trans-Atlantic flight is essentially kryptonite for the East Coast night owl: You’re just about ready to fully hit the sack right as the plane lands.) Add to this the reality that the Frankfurt airport is a haven for US Army personnel and I felt like James Woods in that Family Guy episode when he gets lured up the stairs because there’s a piece of candy on every step: “Ooh, piece of candy…Ooh, piece of candy…Ooh, piece of candy…” I walked up to three different army people and asked them if they were picking me up because they had confused looks on their faces.

I was finally picked up by a member of the army; for the sake of privacy we’ll call him John. In the field he’s a shooter (the guy that sits on top of the tank wielding a giant gun). We got to talking and John, who also has expertise as a parachutist, regaled me with stories from his 7 years of service. Sad but true: as a member of generation apathy, I learned more about the ins and outs of US Army—and its invasion into Iraq—in one 45 minute ride from Frankfurt to Mannheim than all total knowledge I had prior to that ride. I also got more of a feel for what it’s like to be in the army…and, DAMN. And I don’t necessarily mean that in a bad way. I’m just hearing things and I’m like, DAMN. Call it shock and awe.

I got to the Coleman Gym on the Army Base, where Team USA was practicing. Just as I walked in, Coach Lionel Hollins, a key contributor on the Trail Blazers championship team from 1977, was giving an impassioned speech. I enjoyed listening to coach Hollins; he speaks clearly and directly and intelligently about the game its nuances.

Then I watched practice. It’s fascinating to watch all of these youngsters bursting (literally) with athleticism go through drills. As someone who’s gotten jaded from watching the pros on the regular, my reactions wavered to impressed to occasionally cringing. 17 year-old Americans practicing their fundamentals: it is what it is.

After I introduced myself to Hollins, I told him that I had his rookie card. (Note: I had confused him with Lionel Simmons. For what it’s worth—probably about six bucks—I would much rather have a Lionel Hollins rookie card. In fact, I would try and sell it to Bill Walton for five hundred bucks, which is 6 Euro.)

On the way to lunch, it comes out that Scott Willard, one of team USA’s two assistants, is a Kenyon College graduate. Willard transferred from Gerogia Tech and played ball at Kenyon with Chris Donovan, whose book on being a D-3 athlete I read before heading to ‘The Hill’, and Shaka Smart, a top assistant at Clemson. (As I noted previously in my Nike Camp report from ’06, the appropriately named Smart—he turned Harvard down to go to Kenyon—served under LeBron’s high school coach, Keith Dambrot, at Akron before heading to Clemson. Kids, it’s a small world.)

Not only that, but Willard and I belong to the same chapter of the same fraternity. Some perspective: Kenyon graduates around 350 per class. This is like finding a needle in a haystack expo center. So we’re brothers, I guess, but both kind of look at the frat thing as more of a college experience thing than a life-altering course of action. (There are others that see it the other way, and I have love for them, too.)

We ate a “buffet” lunch at the cafeteria next to the arena. I’m told to get used to it because we’re going to eat there every day. Backup big man Andy Shannon informs me that he, Jeff Shelton and Brent Shuck are Team USA’s popcorn section. As you might expect, they’re hilarious (and really good at basketball, too—just overlooked on such a talented squad). I have an inherent respect for the popcorn section’s biting sarcasm because it reminds me of when I rocked left bench hard for a year in college before trading my shoes in for a pen and a pad. (On a serious note, all of these kids are good enough to play for solid D-1 schools. Coaches, get out your Rolodexes. Really. I’m not kidding. We can wait…)

After a much needed mid-afternoon siesta, I headed over to the gym with my main man; we’ll call him Jim (Team USA on-base caretaker, US Army official, and all around ridiculous personality). We caught the end of Spain-Greece. The US had already lost to Greece, and the Greeks were methodically Socratizing the over-matched Spaniards (no Ricky Rubio—he’s like, trying to win an ACB league championship or something…by the way, watching Lang on Canal Plus while in Germany was a highlight of my first afternoon’s down time…).

Towards the end of the Greece victory, the Greek fans in the upper left corner of the gymnasium started making all sorts of raucous noise, jumping up and down and waving flags. They were reminiscent of the great Olympiakos fans I saw during a Champions League game against Real Madrid two and a half years ago at the Bernabeu. Great atmosphere and tremendous support shown.

I met and sat next to Detlef Schrempf for a while. First impression is also that he’s the man. I forgot to ask him if I could mooch off of Jim McIlvane’s pension.

Next on the docket is the US-Argentina game. It starts out sluggish; both teams are struggling mightily to hit from the field. The Americans pull away towards the end of the second quarter, and never fully let Argentina get all the way back into it, winning 74-58 and holding Argentina to 29% (!) from the floor. The Americans were paced by 21 from Walker (Florida), who made up for a 6-15 night from the field by getting to the line 11 times (hitting 9), controlling tempo and knocking down big shots during Team USA’s lead-building run.

Cashmere “I read your blog” Wright (Cincy) went for a very efficient 16 points on 6-9 from the floor. When Hollins got on Wright in the second half, he got into fifth gear and excelled on the defensive end, running around and into screens—drawing a foul—at a blistering pace and picking up timely steals (he finished with 5). While W&W certainly did their respective things well, Travis Releford (Kansas) also played a whale of a game, dropping 19 on 6-8 shooting and setting the defensive tone of his squad. Releford took ashot, crashing to the ground after being hit on a layup attempt. He walked off to a loud ovation from the Americans GI’s in attendance. A trio of juniors, Anthony Stover (blocked shots), Brendan Lane (glass-work) and Wally Judge (hustle and key buckets) also contributed well in the win.

The fantastic atmosphere was punctuated by raucous chants of “USA-USA-USA” with 5 and change left on the clock.

The coaches were pleased with the performance after the game. And we all put our arms in the circle for one final “U-S-A” before heading out for the customary 11pm dinner.

Not only am I temporarily in the army, apparently (custom Team USA shoes and full access), I might as well be on the team.

According to a leaflet handed to me by Christine Gebhard, a prominent figure involved with the competition, the bi-annual Albert-Schweitzer international basketball tournament is, “the largest privately organized tournament for junior national teams in the world, co-hosted by the German Basketball Federation, City of Mannheim, and the U.S. Military Community Mannheim.”

The tournament, hosted every two years, is like the mini-Olympics. Fans from all around the world pack the US Sports Arena on the American Army base in support of their country’s young ballers, joining locals and American soldiers from Mannheim and other nearby military bases. The atmosphere created is mesmerizing.

Schweitzer, who received the 1952 noble prize for his philosophy regarding “reverence for life”, said:

I will not enumerate all the crimes that have been committed under the pretext of justice. People robbed native inhabitants of their land, made slaves of them, let loose the scum of mankind upon them. Think of the atrocities that were perpetrated upon people made subservient to us, how systematically we have ruined them with our alcoholic “gifts,” and everything else we have done…We decimate them, and then, by the stroke of a pen, we take their land so they have nothing left at all…

The tournament represents a coming together of nations during good times as well as bad. Its respect for the game of basketball represents Schweitzer’s fundamental love of life, about which he once stated:

True philosophy must start from the most immediate and comprehensive fact of consciousness: ‘I am life that wants to live, in the midst of life that wants to live.’”

The US History:

Magic Johnson, Vince Carter and Baron Davis all balled here. From what I could gather, Tim Duncan, as a raw young big from the Virgin Islands, rode the bench in Mannheim. To those who knew Duncan way back when, his transformation into arguably the greatest power forward of all-time came out of nowhere.

Dirk, Tony Parker and other notable internationals battled against the US throughout the years. To celebrate the past, here’s an excerpt of an interview I did with Dick McCann, who coached the US team at the Albert Schweitzer tournament for 31 years:

SLAM: What are your standout memories from year years coaching the US team?

McCann: The 1977 team that averaged about 130 points per game…The 1985 team was a good team: Glen Rice, BJ Armstrong.

SLAM: Talk about memories of guys in the NBA.

DM: The ’96 team had Jermaine O’Neal, Baron Davis.

SLAM: I heard Baron and Vince came off the bench.

DM: Vince was on the ’94 team, two years before. He did not come off the bench. He started at a wing. But Baron came off the bench. I always had a philosophy that I would make someone that I knew was good enough to start but didn’t have to be a star; if we ever had to make somebody come off the bench and give a spark—that was the player I went to.

And I used [Baron Davis] in that capacity and we spoke about it before we even started playing. He had no problems doing it. He could come off the bench and throw in 20 points on any given night. He had players falling all over themselves because of his skill handling the basketball. He was so skilled that the officials did not call carrying on him. I mean, he hid the ball that well; he hid it on his hip—he held it, he double dribbled, he did everything. He was so skilled that the referees didn’t call anything on him.

SLAM: That’s incredible…Did it get harder as it went along?

DM: It got harder for a couple of reasons. A lot of the kids starting out with the 2000 team came to Europe and played and weren’t interested in coming back. Parents kept saying they didn’t want their children to come back because of the world’s situation. And then the McDonald’s game taking place this week…the Jordan game…all of these games conflicting with the event over here, so instead being able to get players from 25-50, we were getting players from 75-125. Not that they weren’t good players—they were good kids and they were good players—but given the skill of the European teams, it was very, very difficult to get kids to be able compete with and they weren’t interested in coming back. So we did the best we could. Some of the kids we had have come to the NBA. Thaddeus Young spent one year at Georgia Tech. He was on the 2004 team. He’s doing a very good job in Philadelphia.

The Future:

The ’08 rendition of Team USA was sponsored by 2K8 Sports and brought to Germany by Adidas International. Team USA fit a mold that Adidas is trying to develop through its Adidas Nations project. The premise is to work with the kids and teach them once a month, so that when they play in international competition, they can apply what they’ve learned. If the 2010 AST team works out once a month, every month, it will have more of an ability to put its best foot forward in competition against internationals that grow up playing ball with their national teams.
Lang wrote last summer:

According to adidas, the whole thing is “designed to emphasize and focus on adidas’ core belief that real success in the game of basketball comes with playing in a team.” So, teams of the best players from the Class of 08 and 09 have been assembled around the world (in the U.S., China, Europe, Latin America). They’ll train in their respective countries, then meet up…

As Darren Matsubara, General manager of Adidas Nations, aptly puts it, “You’ve created a philosophy, you’ve created a mentality…doing it once a month, you’re reinforcing what you’re teaching. Everything with today’s youth is instant coffee, fast food. We’ve gotta get back to the meat and potatoes.”

Mats talks about training the kids before they get to the finish, not just letting the ones that make it to the league glean knowledge from the rookie transition program. To get his point across, he uses the metaphor of basketball players as students, noting that it’s better to study 5 times to get one A than studying once to get 5 C’s. For anyone who wants to see US international basketball return to prominence, it’s hard to disagree.

I got a call from Ben almost three weeks ago. Saying that, like a Miller Lite slogan, it was a good call would be like saying that the 50 LeBron dropped on the Knicks was decent.

As it turns out, SLAM and Adidas wanted someone to go to Germany and hang out with the USA under-18 national team at the Albert Schweitzer International tournament, taking place in Mannheim this week. Apparently, I was that guy.

I’m still blown away that this is happening. (Big shout to Mats, Team USA, SLAM, Adidas and anyone else who had a hand in making this happen.) I’ll be flying out tonight and I’ll be at the tournament through its conclusion on Saturday. Then I’ll head elsewhere in Deutschland to meet a lot of extended family for the first time.

(Note: the tournament started on Saturday, but due to other commitments, I wasn’t able to go immediately.)

I’ll be missing the Sweet 16 and Elite 8, which is sort of sad, especially if CBS has Bill Raftery doing games. (Note: Does anybody else want Bill Raftery as their extra surrogate grandfather on thanksgiving? “How are the mashed potatoes coming, grandpa? “They’re good, I added, ONIONS.” “Will we have leftovers?” “BRING YOUR LUNCH!”)

Anyway, I’ll miss a few tourney games, but I think I’ll live.

(Note: If this Dirk Nowitzki injury is a German SLAM curse–I did the cover story on Dirk last year and am leaving right after he gets injured and returning shortly before he was originally supposed to come back–then I pass some of the blame to Mark Cuban for not emailing me back. Can’t a guy try and ask a billionaire and his star German for some Hefe-weizen input? I mean, this is about German hops, right?)

Since I’ve never seen any of them play, yet sill want to let you know something about Team USA, I’m posting the few things I think I do know about them. By posting this now, I’m hoping to do two things: 1) Familiarize you guys with these players a little bit, so when I send my updates you’ll know who I’m talking about and 2) Like an ice cream truck on a warm summer’s day, serve a little good humor (and glaze pun-donuts with cheez whiz, apparently).

Travis Releford: Lock down defender headed to Kansas next fall; let me interview him for a Punk in SLAM, which is always a guaranteed 12 minutes of laugh out loud fun—or not; likes 50 Cent more than Kanye; aside from liking 50 more than Kanye, he seems like a really cool kid—like I said, I’m excited to get to know him, and the rest of his USA teammates, a little bit.

Cashmere Wright: “Electric scorer,” according to Rivals.com, headed to Cincinnati; doubtful that he’ll know what I’m talking about when I try to kick it old school and ask him for his “Cashmere thoughts”; probably has less knowledge of the “Cashmere” Seinfeld episode than the previously alluded to Jay-Z song; game comes without a glaring red dot, which is fantastic.

Erving Walker: Undersized, explosive NYC point guard seems born into the familiar Big Apple PG refrain, but don’t quote me on that; going to Florida, where he will make a copy of his own gym key so Billy Donovan can never lock him out; may at some point enjoy a T-Bone with Tebow or call Athens with Calathes.

Oscar Bellfield: Heading to UNLV, where he will run with the Rebels; last name combines two actual things (a Bell and a Field), which I have a natural appreciation for; probably doesn’t chew towels in search of a cotton-based, mouth-drying nostalgia.

Jeff Shelton: One of two American army brats on the team; currently attends an American high school in Cadiz, Spain (I’ll go out on a limb and say that I’m the only SLAM writer to have gone grocery shopping during a siesta hour stop-over in Cadiz); according to this ESPN article, the 6”1 point guard, “has impressive athleticism with very explosive leaping ability. He will surprise a bigger defender by trying to dunk on him when he attacks the rim off of penetration.”

Wally Judge: Headed to Kansas State; last name is “Judge” and, ironically, will most likely be (somewhat) replacing Michael Beasley; probably does not know that Ryan Jones prays in front of a Judge (Mike) statuette.

Brendan Lane: Only a junior; has committed to the Pacific Ten Conference; has narrowed his college choices to half of said conference; may have a fear of the Atlantic Ocean.

Brent Shuck: Like Shelton, Shuck attends a United States Department of Defense Dependent School (DoDDS); last name is Shuck, any affinity for corn is currently unknown; goes to high school in Germany and high school’s name is Ramstein (seriously), where classes include Du, Du Hast, and Du Hast Mich.

Erik Murphy: Is neither a midget nor Vincent Chase’s manager; still has a year left in high school; has given a “solid Verbal” to Florida, which may or may not mean anything (I gave a solid verbal to a buddy of mine the other day and we never met for that elusive beer).

Andy Shannon: Appears to be a late bloomer; apparently a good shot blocker that may or may not still be looking to commit to a school; did not drunkenly compete in a St. Patrick’s Day scavenger hunt, running through downtown Philadelphia like a highly visible hipster tool-kit.

Jeff Withey: 7 feet tall (that’s a lot of feet); headed to Arizona; probably won’t ask Kevin O’Neil what William Gates is up to; hopes to one day see the second round of the NCAA tournament.

Anthony Stover: Either 6”10 or 6”8, depending on which part of this web page you believe; still has another year of high school; looking at Florida and some other west coast schools; probably likes stovetop and most definitely likes stuffing.

I should holler from the other side of the pond at some point if my hotel room has a working internet connection. That or I will check in through my peoples at Five Magazine…in German. Or not. If for whatever reason you don’t get a blog post update, you should get at least two voluminous reports on my time in Deutschland upon returning.

I feel like a sober Will Ferrell in Old School when he’s telling the kids how excited he is to potentially go to Home Depot the next day, except that the Home Depot is a basketball tournament in Germany.

But really, I’m more excited than T-Mac listening to Dikembe Mutombo deliver a sonnet after Houston’s twenty-second straight win; more excited than Peter Vecsey on Isiah Thomas appreciation day; more excited than Ronaldinho’s future orthodontist’s calendar, were he to call; more excited than Lester Freamon when McNulty told him what he was up to; more excited than the first time I heard “Fortified Live” and Mr. Man spit, “cut ya @$$ in half and leave you with a semi-colon”;

“You make the music selfishly. Then you put it out there and hope that it connects with the people. The third part is going out and performing it – that’s the part I love.” – Minority owner, Brooklyn Nets.

People occasionally send me emails asking how to get down with SLAM and the like, perhaps forgetting that I’m a freelancer that holds very little actual power. After the Cavs-Knicks game Wednesday night, Russ and I spent a while talking about a bunch of Appleson related topics. It was one of those awesome conversations that makes you feel alive because both of us knew how much we cared about what we do. Russ made an incredibly astute point: despite the fact that we practice an incredibly free-wheeling style of reporting/writing/blogging we are professionals when it comes to what we do; Russ because he ran the basketball bible for over half a decade and talking NBA is akin to breathing for the dude, and me because have two major addictions: writing and basketball.

(Footnote: my whole day and night was one of those periods of time that can remind a person of how amazing life can be: after receiving a totally unexpected and awesome call from Ben, I watched Real Madrid play Roma–I kind of hate both teams, so it was win-win–and then we went to the Garden and watched the King go off for 50. That combined with the first signs of spring being sprung, and it just proved to be a fantastic day all-around.)

Back to what I’m getting at: We interact with you guys and show you love on these web pages because SLAM is Love–it always has been and it always will be. Part of what I think makes Appleson special is that Russ and I are both old souls, and we both just really wanna do what we love to do. We’re sensitive to things going on around us and, despite occasional ridiculousness, we’re both very perceptive. More to the point, we want you to see what we see because SLAM is love and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t feel the same way. (By the way, did I mention that Slam is love? Word is bound.)

I’ve written a few pieces lately and they’ve pleased the commenting masses here to a very high degree. I appreciate the love, but I feel like I need to make something clear because a lot of people who could become writers read this website, a website that features a ridiculous arsenal of talented, versatile scribes. Everyone has their own process, but for me, this sh*t doesn’t just happen. I work my freaking a$$ off because I love basketball, and because, if you’re reading, I respect you, too. And I don’t work hard because I necessarily want to; it’s because there’s no other way for me. For what it’s worth, I’d probably much rather sit back with my girl in my lap and a beer in my hand while yelling at my television for not being interesting enough.

(Footnote: It irks me to think that there could be a potential person(s) out there that has his or her own voice that reads this–or anyone else on this or other sites–and thinks, “oh, well, I could never do it like that,” so why try?” I’m not some a-hole that sits here and spits word vomit onto a computer screen that more often than not people seem to enjoy. It doesn’t work like that.)

When I was in first grade, my teacher–who would later get fired for making students give her foot rubs–nicknamed me, “The Absent Minded Professor.” The light bulb was on, and it saw things in a different, unique way, but the details were usually off. Was it ADD? Was it that I just zoomed too fast through my work so I could go outside and be uber-competitive in whatever sport was the being played at recess? I don’t know–how bout a little of both?

The truth of the matter is that I never wanted to be a writer. My dad was a writer and I wanted to do my own thing. It just sort of caught me (conduit, mentor, believer, purveyor of sarcasm and friend: Ryan Jones), like some sort of enjoyable disease or addiction that I had no defense against. Anyway, I was a terrible, if promising, scribe growing up whose work was corroded with typos and poor thinking, in part because I just didn’t care all that much.

(Footnote: They didn’t call me “Apple Turnover” on my high school basketball team for nothing…)

It wasn’t until I had to craft my college essay that I realized writing truly was a craft. “Writing is re-writing.” This guy I know pretty well had that quote taped to his computer screen like some sort of massive barnacle of truth enjoying a whale.
The thing about this blog, besides the fact that it’s somewhat personal is that I can’t post anything without obsessively going over it, minimum five or six times–and I still get shit wrong. A lot. Anything I rush will immediately get reamed for screwing something up. It’s happened before and I hope I’ve fully learned my lesson. So, I guess, at heart, maybe I’m not a blogger, even though I have a blog that let’s me speak in the first person.

Thing is, I’ve learned to self-edit–I never said censor–myself through incredibly hard work. Honestly, I feel like my approach to words is like Kobe’s approach to basketball in that it’s dogged and seemingly interminable. There’s a huge difference, though. As Russ correctly asserted last night, Kobe’s working his a$$ off to be the best basketball player on the planet–a title he shares with LBJ; like Russ says, get over yourselves, people, and respect that they’re both brilliant…just leave it the f–k be. Unless you want a migraine.

Unlike Kobe, I’m not trying to be the best. That’s stupid. Relentless egos strokes as building blocks, though enjoyable, are for p*ssies. There is no *best* in a craft that’s, ultimately, completely subjective. Really, I’m just trying to make sure I don’t fail. If being the best is the only acceptable (psychotic?) way Kobe can believe he hasn’t failed, maybe we share something: a fear of failure that serves as motivation.

An apple(sauce) and a (mamba) snake. We do theoretically come from the same garden.

(Footnote: I’m *Kobe/Jack Bauer/shotclock* years old. The fact that I’m dispensing what could be construed as advice is patently absurd. I can’t believe I just wrote this. I’m going to go word vomit all over myself and then edit it 24 times (self-imposed punishment). Not even Bob Saget, back when he played the wholesome Danny Tanner on Full House, chewed that thoroughly.)

No one goes to Madison Square Garden for the Knicks anymore. Not the fans, not the writers, possibly not even the Knicks themselves. Every sports columnist in the Greater New York Area was at the World’s Most Shameless last night, and there was no question why.

PREGAME

The vibe in the Knicks locker room is cool with a hint of the usual awkwardness. Generally speaking, many reporters treat talking to the Knicks as if they were young girls at a 6th grade dance: the two sides stand across from each other waiting for that one player or media member to make the first move. Not that you can necessarily blame either side at all…In fact, you can’t help but feel for everybody involved.

Possibly related, there might be some sort of twisted, MSG home-court advantage thing that forces the pregame media interview with the opposing coach to inadvertently block the players from getting through to the locker room. Wally Sczerbiak damn near broke his ankle trying to sneak past a camera. WELCOME HOME, WALLY! (By the way, after the game Wally World had his hair so spiky, I almost walked up to him and asked him if he was a fire-starter. Perhaps even, AN INSTIGATOR.)

Visitor’s side. There’s a huge crowd surrounding the locker nearest the bathroom door, the one with the fresh pair of Yankee-pinstriped Nikes in the upper compartment. The man himself finally emerges from the back, shirtless, Bose headphones over a black do-rag. LeBron James is in the building. He stands up to a barrage of questions, here’s some A’s without Q’s:

“A team can’t win when a guy puts himself ahead of the team.”

“I just go out and play my game every night.”

“it’s the mecca of basketball—everyone remembers what Reggie and Michael did here.”

“For me it’s always been team-first—that’s how I look at that.”

“I play hard with whoever’s out there in a Cavaliers uniform. I believe we can win with anyone out there on the court—I’m just that confident.”

“I just be myself. I don’t change for the cameras or anything.”

Most of all, Bron states that he wants to compete for a championship every year, no matter what. “I don’t believe in the ‘rebuilding stages’ or anything like that.”

Damon Jones and I were catching up, when he whipped out his Blackberry and started texting while I whipped out my old school piece of crap cell phone to show him how awful it was. Then he said something rhyme-y. “Do you flow?” I asked nonchalantly. Ben Wallace and Billy Thomas burst out laughing.

FIRST QUARTER

Malik Rose is announced as a starter, then, before the game can actually start, it’s announced that no, actually David Lee is starting. Perhaps this is a cheap ploy to get cheers. It works.

Joey Crawford in the house.

The Cavaliers roll out a starting five of Delonte West, Devin Brown, LeBron James, Ben Wallace and Anderson Varejao. Hm, I wonder where the scoring’s gonna come from?

Julia Stiles is sitting in between Jay-Z and Jeremy Piven. For those scoring at home, if talent and seat charts were equivalent to food, that’d be a multi-grain increda-bread mayonnaise sandwich.

Devin Brown, of course. He scores the first four Cav points—it would have been four of the first six, but Ben Wallace misses a dunk. Of course.

Varejao flops hard enough to attract a Japanese whaling ship and a boatful of Greenpeace protestors. David Lee simply steps in and converts the shot. Just a thought, but if a guy goes down so hard and there isn’t a foul called on the offensive player, shouldn’t the flopper be punished? I vote for either a personal or tech assessed with no stoppage of play.

LeBron hits a jumper.

Ben Wallace hits a pair of free throws (nothing but net) off a complicated play that starts with a Jamal Crawford airball and a LeBron James rebound and outlet.

Varejao flops again, then a Knicks entry pass bounces off Eddy Curry’s head before he regroups and dunks it. You didn’t see that sequence on ESPN.

LeBron fires a pass to Ben Wallace underneath, who skips it out to Delonte for a corner three. Curry hits a pair of free throws, and Devin Brown follows up with another three. And then it’s Delonte’s turn again. 21-15, Cavs.

The Knicks fight back, and it’s 27-all at the end of 1. LeBron ends the first with two points, three rebounds, and five assists.

SECOND QUARTER

LeBron scores the first eight points of the quarter for the Cavaliers, getting the pesky double-digit points requirement out of the way.

The Knicks keep up, though. Randolph Morris is in, as are Malik Rose and Fred Jones. Malik has a rough start to the quarter—he’s emphatically blocked by Joe Smith, then is called for a loose-ball foul on a made basket from Morris (two in a row!). Apparently one can be called for a loose-ball foul when there’s no loose ball. Another mystery of the universe.

Time out. The sound blinks out during the fine “Who Wins the Oscar?” segment on the scoreboard, giving the fans yet another thing to boo about. Excellent.

Coming out of the time out, Damon Jones stops by the Knicks bench to greet Stephon Marbury, who’s still wearing his outfit from his new day job as a used car salesman. LeBron is replaced by Devin Brown. Beer sales spike.

Wally Szczerbiak then stars in YouTube’s next “worst possession ever.” First, he awkwardly jumps backwards on an attempted jump shot, trying to draw the foul. He loses the ball, gets it back, drives into the lane, stops, turns, travels.

In celebration, Anderson Varejao falls down. Again.

The Knicks commit their 5th team foul with 7:07 to go, then follow it with a 24-second violation.

A lazy Devin Brown pass is picked off by Jamal Crawford, who streaks downcourt. Damon Jones catches up, strips him clean, and actually winds up catching the ball—while standing out of bounds. Whoops.

Wilson Chandler is getting minutes again, and one has to wonder why it’s taken him for so long to crack the rotation.

LeBron checks back in after a nearly four-minute rest. It takes him a little while to get back going, but then he threads a bounce pass between Q and Lee to Varejao for an easy basket underneath, and follows it with a mean double-clutch two handed dunk. Eddy Curry wisely stays out of the way.

Then there’s this: Drive, fouled by Q. Hits both. Corner three. And with time running out, a fading, running right-to-left, across-the-body three from 35 feet. Absurd. 58-54 Cavs at the half, LeBron with 20 points, six assists, four rebounds.

THIRD QUARTER

The Cavs stretch the lead to eight, allow the Knicks to cut it back to two. Re-tie, it, even. Then they commit their fifth team foul with 7:08 to go. LeBron to the line, hits two, has 25.

The Knicks keep fighting. Chandler re-ties with a shot over LeBron, Nate unties with a three from up top. 69-66, Knicks.

A Jamal three stretches the Knicks lead to eight.

I had the pleasure of enjoying the game with my main man Michael Lee, of the Washington Post. By the way, I totally forgot to mention this, but given the fact that his name is MICHAEL LEE (character on the Wire, played by perhaps the best teenage TV actor alive right now, Tristan Wilds) doesn’t that automatically qualify him as the gulliest newspaper man in the biz? Anyhow, Mike noticed that when LeBron went on a tear in the third quarter, Jigga didn’t even look up from his texting. I offered that perhaps Jay was enjoying his texting more than the actual game because he was using “The Blueberry” which won’t come out for another two years. Just to play it safe, we revised that to “The Boysenberry,” which will come out in another 7 years. “The Boysenberry” is so dope that Jay can actually use it to re-program Rihanna.

A freshly re-entered Damon Jones hits a three. LeBron swipes the ball from Crawford, hits a pair of free throws. That’s 30, with 2:16 to go in the third. Eddy Curry blows an alley-oop, LeBron with another driving layup. LeBron with a deep two. Lebron with a straightaway three over Jared Jeffries. Cavs by three. Jeffries hits one of two free throws, and LeBron misses a three—airball—as the quarter ends. The traditional “AIR-BALL” chant rises, and one can’t help but think it’s a terrible idea. Cavs by two.

FOURTH QUARTER

Wilson Chandler is out there in crunchtime, and he pops a three over Devin Brown to give the lead back to the Knicks.

Randolph Morris, also seeing the light of day, hits a pretty baseline turnaround over Ben Wallace.

A LeBron driving layup gives him 39 with 8:24 to go. This after he misses a pair of free throws.

The Knicks step it up, committing their fifth team foul with 7:52 to go. If you’re counting at home, that means they’re in the penalty for 22 of the final 36 minutes.

Eddy Curry checks in for Randolph Morris with 4:17 to go and the Cavs leading 99-98. With 3:41 to go, LeBron hits a corner three. Crawford misses, Varejao rebounds, and LeBron hits another three. Curry hits one of two at the line, Wallace hits two of two, and LeBron hits ANOTHER three. Cavs by 11, 110-99, with two minutes left.

Ben Wallace heads to the line again, and LeBron squats down by the announcer’s table, speaking to Jay-Z. One imagines they’re working out some sort of multi-million dollar deal. Wallace misses the second, Varejao rebounds, and kicks it to a suddenly re-animated LeBron in the corner. He misses the three, which is good, because if he hit it they may as well have just closed down the Garden. Um, not that it would be a bad idea anyway.

LeBron catches on the wing
Defender backs off
Another three in your eye

After a Jamal Crawford trip to the line, he hits another three anyway. That’s 52 on the scoreboard, but only 50 in real life. Apparently a Devin Brown basket was credited to LeBron earlier.

Damon Jones hits another three. On the next possession he gets open for yet another one, and Nate Robinson leaps up and catches it. Goaltend.

LeBron is checked out for Billy Thomas, and receives a standing ovation. Then there’s a little chaos as a fan in a white LeBron Cavs jersey runs across the court and actually gives LeBron a pound and a few words of congratulations before security can drag him off. Apparently NO ONE in MSG can guard anyone.

The words that were cut from my story are in regular font, updated opinions and notes are in italics.

Before I start with the essay’s extras, let me mention that I wrote it during and when I came down from a 102.6 fever. This was my “flu game” and I think it turned out well. When I started writing the piece, I wanted to pay respect to a few other guys before making my case for Rose:

We’re all well aware that this year’s bumper crop of diaper dandies is deep enough to put Huggies out of business. Before I make my case for the freshman of the year, I’d like to acknowledge a few other worthy nominees.

LA has found Love and that’s great; rumor has it K-Lo threw an outlet pass so sexy, it nailed Jessica Alba. At just over 19 (his age or his scoring average, take your pick), Jerryd Bayless is a phoenix rising in Tucson. Kyle Singler is so fundamentally sound, I’m pretty sure he sleeps in triple threat position. And the awe-inspiring Eric Gordon and Michael Beasley—the best college player to call Manhattan, any Manhattan, home since Chris Mullin—are arguably the two most singular dominant forces in college basketball.

There’s your respect right there. Not enough space, fellas. Sorry. Oh, and Kevin, next time those Oregonians give you hard time, just shoot some Birkenstocks filled with vegan sandwiches out of a t-shirt cannon into the student section…If you thought that was judgmental and/or rude, read Grant Wahl’s story on taunting in college basketball from this past week’s SI to get some real perspective.

Also, for added Rose-related perspective, check out Wahl’s piece on the dribble-drive motion (DDM) offense that Memphis utilizes. Rose is the key to a system–call it DDM-DR-CDR–that doesn’t give him a lot of statistical credit. This is part of why he’s so overlooked. Anyone who watched him against Tennessee–Memphis’ lone loss, and a game they really should have won–knows that he can take over when called upon and show that he’s the best player on the court.

I felt the desire to point out that the Antonio Anderson playing for Memphis isn’t the lunch-box that’s somehow made a career out of being corny as hell.

– The sold-out FedEx forum is rocking, as the Memphis Grizzly Cubs, arguably the NCAA‘s version of an NBA prep school, have captured hearts and lifted spirits in the City Of Blues like none before them.

Really, the Grizzlies should just move and get it over with. Memphis is Tiger town.

–Noting the eerie similarities between his team’s inauspicious start and drunk kids getting shut out in 10-cup beer pong, Gonzaga coach Mark Few calls a timeout and makes his team run a naked lap. Except that he doesn’t at all.

Man, if I had more words, I could’ve made this essay sooooo college. And I guess that would have been fitting.

–It’s worth noting that against Houston, his signature [redacted] moment was when he scored between all 5 defenders.

Buy some magazines to find out what that redacted word is. It means a lot. Seriously.

– That Rose “gets it” to this degree would most assuredly lead Dickie V to call him *special* (accent on the ESHUL).

I feel the need to point out that I missed Dick Vitale. I used to think he was overrated, but I couldn’t believe how heartwarming it was when he came back during the Duke/UNC game.

Baby.

–Now you can say what you want about Memphis’ conference schedule being weaker than the Bush economy, but the relative ease of a soft in-conference slate is mitigated by the pressure that builds inherently from being the nation’s last undefeated team and their tough non-conference schedule. Moreover, in beating Georgetown, Arizona, USC, Cincinnati, and Connecticut, the Tigers are battle tested.

Um, I wrote the story when they were undefeated yet the story is still very relevant. This is why you should buy this magazine: to learn things–not just from my piece, but from Ben and Bon and Demarco and Cub as well. (Sidenote: Doesn’t Ben & Bon sound like a great sitcom? I’m sure Russ and Ryan will write the first episode in the comments.)

–True to form, Rose doesn’t think he’s the best frosh in the country. “There’s a lot of people better than me, but I’m not too far away,” he says. If he responded by saying, “Of course I think I’m the best, you’ve got to think you’re the best to be the best,” Memphis wouldn’t have been perfect for so long. And I wouldn’t have an argument.

This is funny because you don’t know my argument…

–”We’re very surprised we’re undefeated.”

Here, Rose admits that the Tigers were surprised they were undefeated. Mmm…Humble pie.

–Rose talked about watching Futurama, Family Guy, and The Boondocks.

To put it in “Toon”: He is the future, is a better baller than young Reezy (young Rosey?), and why people still slightly underestimate him is a Quagmire.

Related, there’s something very innocent and grounded about Rose. When I interviewed him two years ago for the big punk (SLAM 102), dude talked about still watching Nickelodeon. It’s something like that, and the fact that he never talks back to his coaches, that bode well for a future that will be spent under an even hotter magnifying glass.

–On the NBA:

“Just focused on right now.”

Generic, much? For what it’s worth, I truly believe that Rose will be a better pro than Beasley and Gordon. In his argument for Beasley, Bon noted that Gordon could become a lot like Gilbert Arenas in the future. I like that comparison. And we’ve heard the Beasley/Derrick Coleman comparisons. Personally, since we’re talking early 90′s I’d rather take a millionaire’s Kevin Johnson–or the offspring of J-Kidd and D-Wade for those looking to keep it modern–than the next DC or next Gilbert.

Rose is a two way player that, with the ball in his hands, changes everything. Plus, his weaknesses (free throw shooting, jumper, turnovers that have a lot to do with the riskiness of the DDM) can be improved, making him all the more dangerous when he gets to the next level. Beasley and Gordon will have to adjust to bigger, more physical guys trying to prevent them from getting their shots off while Rose and his speed and pg skill set are already ready for the league (see: “Paul, Chris” and “Williams, Deron”). Throw in the questions about Beasley’s attitude–he’s already shown he can look past an opponent…his team isn’t even ranked anymore–and it seems like a no-brainer.

I think of it this way: If the Knicks were able to land Rose and smart enough to get rid of Randolph, they could easily be a playoff team. Run Rose and Nate in the backcourt next to Lee, Balkman and JC–grab an enforcer and a 3 point specialist–and just GO. Phoenix-lite at MSG? It’ll never happen, but it’s fun to think about.

–Rose, on his teammates:

“We’re very close. All came from the same background. Coming here is like being back in Chicago.”

Memphis is the new Chicago. You heard it here first.

And Derrick Rose is the best freshman in all of the land. You probably heard that here first, too. Now go read about why.

“Alright guys, I’m done for the season,” Jason Kidd says jokingly. 10-15 Sportswriters of assorted ages and outlets share a laugh with one of the greatest point guards in NBA history.

Kidd, who had just spent an extended period ensconced in the middle of a semi-circular media chamber of questioning, was referring to his excessive preseason media participation—the Philly area media also reportedly had him pinned in a corner a few days before.

“Alright guys, I’m done for the season.” The comment rings of such ridiculous irony after the fact, it’s impossible not to think in metaphors. It started with a series of questions I had to ask Kidd for a feature on him that I was working on. (Perhaps selfishly, I wonder if Kidd would have even talked pregame—he normally wouldn’t—that night if he didn’t have a pending SLAM interview that had already been put off once.)

When others picked up on the scent, it turned into something bigger. Kidd was relaxed, answering questions beautifully and pleasing the throng like we were his teammates in the open floor.

The story turned out like mostthings I’ve written about J-Kidd: very positive. I wanted to pay respect to what he’d meant to the New Jersey Nets franchise and their fans. More importantly, some of the things he said underlined what at the time seemed like his very genuine hope for this year’s rendition of the Nets.

Oops.

**

PART II: Fans

I can’t lie. Jason Kidd changed my life. In the fall of 2001, a few months after graduating high school, my family moved from the suburbs back into New York City. I decided to take a year off before starting college and get to know the city. All of my friends were either finishing high school or starting college. I was alone, adjusting to the biggest metropolis in the country.

The year before, the Starbury Nets were awful and injury riddled almost beyond belief. On the bright side, pre 9/11, the desolate “morgue”—as we called the “Izod Center” back then—was home to lax security guards that gave young NBA fiends the perfect opportunity to witness their heroes, or Vladamir Stepania, up close. We would sneak past security guards like Speedy Gonzalez racing past Sylvester the Cat in search of some good cheese.

01-02 changed everything. Thanks to increased security measures that aimed to, among other things, block terrorists like me from enjoying the occasional plastic bottle cap, my co-opted seats close to the floor were replaced by my actual seats way up in the East Rutherford sky. It didn’t matter, though, because the Nets were winning.

That winter, in between folding shirts and dealing with bitchy tourists while listening to the same damn highlight loop at the ESPN Zone in Timesquare, I had the Nets. They were my salvation from a life so ridiculously boring, I had to devise new ways to keep things interesting (count pigeons walking by, get lost going places on purpose, leaf through copies of old SLAMs, etc.).

The Nets pushed me through an otherwise forgettable year of my life and I’ll never forget it as long as I live. And it’s because Jason Kidd and a band of suddenly healthy brothers took the Meadowlands Racetrack and fused it with a nearby basketball court.

The 01-02 Nets, from the perspective of a fan, were the most important team I have ever rooted for. Older and more cynical by the day, I don’t ever expect that to change.

My story is one of many, but it’s the only one I know.

***

PART III: Masks

Some people wear masks to prevent the world from seeing their true selves. Other people hate the way a mask feels and can’t help but stand buck naked in front of the world screaming, “love me, hate me, I just don’t give a f–k.” Most of us, however, lie somewhere in between. The league’s Type A’s in this comparison are Kobe Bryant and Jason Kidd. Type B’s are Rasheed Wallace and Gilbert Arenas (though Arenas, for reasons obvious to the true blog-hard, can waver anywhere between a B- and a B+).

Back before I was given the gift of the press credential, it was easy to focus simply on the way Kidd led his team and played basketball. Fans of the game rarely want any of that extra personal junk clouding the worship of the heroes, though the internet age has made the separation of church (basketball) and state (of mind) incredibly difficult.

The strangest masks-related reality of Kidd’s tenure in Jersey proved to be the juxtaposition of Kidd’s rep against teammate Vince Carter’s. Kidd was consistently deified while Carter was reviled. Truth be told, Kidd’s on-court personality proved a far cry from his media persona. And while Vince may not play the game the way you like it, you can occasionally look into his eyes and catch a small, fleeting glimpse of the real VC. More to the point, it’s a lot easier to understand the psychology of a human being with a penchant for undermining good offense by haphazardly jacking a fadeaway–habit divided by laziness = human nature–than somebody who plays the game one way and plays other games in other ways. For those stuck under large internets-related rocks, Dave D’Allessandro of the Newark Star Ledger recently wrote that, “in the pantheon of passive-aggressives, [Kidd] has no peer.”

Yet, because Kidd’s game sought to redefine the word unselfish, people (fans, media, whoever) frequently projected the way he played on to his character off the court. The irony of the Kidd/Carter dynamic and the way it was treated–Kidd’s a leader and a winner, thus he’s a winner and leader in life; Vince is a lazy, thus he’s pretty much a disappointment in every regard–is that the presumption was absurd.

Think about it: Far be it from me to annoint VC as any sort of saint, but at least he admitted that he quit on the Raptors–and still deals with the boos whenever he returns to Toronto. It’s widely believed that Kidd quit on the Nets and he told the press straight-faced that he had a migraine. Truth or winning? What’s your sauce?

****

PART IV: Relationships

In the modern era where divorce reigns supreme, the marriages that work are the ones where compromise is turned into an art form. Two sides must have a trust that is simultaneously inherent and built upon, to the point that each side cannot truly live and enjoy life to the fullest without the other. Jason Kidd, literally and figuratively, is not a man made for marriage (SURPRISE!!!!!!!).

Like most competitive fiends that ascribe to winning it all at any cost, Kidd is the type enamored by the ring of temptation. His eyes saw jewelry sparkling in the distance like an oasis. He couldn’t help but leave an emotional train-wreck in his wake. It’s his worst fast break.

This is what saddens sentimental Nets fans: A full commitment was made to The Captain—till retirement do us part—and he quit on us. Of course it’s also important to recognize that Kidd is an NBA player, not AC Green. It doesn’t take a Durex Condom Tester to realize that monogamy isn’t natural in the jungle of professional athletes (lions) and groupies (horny grazing deer).

As is the case when any long-standing relationship turns sour, those ditched can’t help but a feel an awkwardly confusing bitter sweetness. We welcome the newbie Nets to the fold—players, cap space and breathing room for guys already there that will invariably better the team—while remaining nostalgic for a past that will never be anything more than highlight reels and emotional recall.

Considering this is a work-related divorce, a lot of it boils down to how you look at it. If you see J-Kidd as an unhappy employee at a company—and come on, most of us have been there—you might understand his desire to split. However, if you’re the type that believes, in part due to responsibility assumed by those earning outrageous sums of money, NBA elder statesmen need to shut their pie-holes and stop acting like a ring is a late-career birthright, resume venting.

*****

PART V: The Conclusion

It’s the strangest mixture of ‘thanks for teaching us how to win and forever changing a franchise’ and ‘don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’

That said, buck what you heard, there still isn’t a ring he can win that’s more important than the revolution he led in the Jersey swamp.

–Gary Sussman sez sits in a corner of media room, sipping tea and practicing, “3-ball side-pocket, DESAGNA DIOP!” This may not have actually happened.

–It’s 80’s night at the IZOD center. As such, the Nets handed out Def Leopard cassettes, short shorts and crack pipes to the first 10,000 fans.

First Quarter

–Sloppy. Sloppy. Sloppy.

–It takes the Nets almost three minutes to score their first bucket.

–RJ jackknifes through the lane and throws it down to the delight of his surrogate father, Bill Walton. Two dunks for Jefferson and some visible emotion from VC already. 9-6, Nets.

–VC goes baseline past the pesky Thabo Sefolosha and flips in a pretty runner. After a Chicago miss, Carter goes baseline off a nice look from RJ and scores again. 13-7.

–A Kirk Hinrich 3 caps a 9-2 Bulls run to put them up 1, 16-15.

–Vince Carter is playing as if there was a 400 lb gorilla lifted off his back. In a related story, there was a 400 lb gorilla lifted off of his back yesterday. Not sure I remember the name of the gorilla, though.

–While we’re still talking about Aaron Gray, Darrell Armstrong just lobbed a bounce pass in to Richard Jefferson and Jefferson crashed into Gray. RJ might as well have hit a brick wall. Jefferson hit the floor so hard; it drew “ooohs” from the crowd.

–Vince has done a good job of finding Diop open underneath the rim since Diop entered.

–Tyrus Thomas flies over everybody and for a tip in. 79-all.

–Chris Duhon drives the lane, absorbs a hit and sticks a tough layup. 85-81, Bulls. A VC 3 and a Marcus Williams pull-up put the Nets up 1. After Duhon finds Nocioni for another jumper, VC hits another 3. Marucs Williams dribbles out of trouble and calmly wets a midrange pull-up. The crowd is pumped.

–A Duhon 3 puts the Bulls up 1, with under 2 minutes left to play.

–Josh Boone has a game high 15 boards so far.

–After a Duhon/Joe Smith screen and roll leads to Smith being surrounded in the paint by Nets, Hassell strips him. Two things: 1) Heads up play by the new pickup, doing exactly what he was brought here ended up here for. 2) If you have Ben Gordon, Luol Deng, Andres Nocioni, Kirk Hinrich, etc. and your late game offense is reduced to a Smith/Duhon high screen and roll, what does that say about how your real talent is producing? Yes, the Bulls have been hit by injuries, and yes, Duhon and Smith on this night were playing the best ball out of all of the Bulls, but…you know what, nevermind.

–VC drives the ball into two guys, bounces off of Ben Wallace and hits a ridiculously tough fading baseline runner. 93-92, Nets.

–VC is fouled going up. It’s like 2001 up in here: Vince and everybody else. He bricks the first. Makes the second. Tied.

–Joe Smith loses the ball.

–Confident and oozing swag, VC misses a straightaway 3.

–Broken play. The Bulls can’t get a shot off. Overtime.

End of regulation: 94-allOvertime

–And-1 for Marcus Williams. Gotta admit, MW is nice when it comes to circus shots. Bricks the FT.

–A bunch of crap.

–Players jostling in the paint, shots altered.

–Some more crap.

–No buckets. Solid defense.

–More crap.

–Ben Gordon banks in a floater while taking a hit. And-1 opportunity. BG misses the FT. More than halfway through the overtime, the overtime tally is less than the Celtic-Barcelona Champions League fixture from earlier today. Defense that forces missed shots is gross, though also admirable. I’m just saying.

–RJ drives through the lane, virtually unguarded, and finishes the up and under layup.

–Marucs Williams rips the ball away from BG and throws it ahead to RJ, who’s fouled. Hits the pair. 100-96.

33-7-9 for Vince. 21 for MW, 24 for RJ. Joe Smith led the Bulls with 17 and 10.

End of Game: 110-102, Nets.

Postgame

–Lawrence Frank is candid in his postgame press conference, praising VC and RJ for their leadership and play, and noting that, while they’re still looking for consistency, Marcus Williams really impressed tonight.

–Desagna Diop temporarily jacks one of VC’s 37 bottles of lotion. Desagna Diop is awesome. If he could somehow fuse himself with Boki Nachbar to create Boki Diop (Desagna Nachbar?), every single person that’s ever watched basketball would have a new favorite player.

–Sean Williams is singing.

–From the surreal, “did that just really happen?” file: As I was editing my notes in my seat after the game had ended, a woman in her late 20′s/early 30′s was on her way out and, for some reason, felt compelled to shout over to me while I sat hunched over in my seat, typing.

“Oh my God, you’re adorable,” she said.

“Um, thanks,” I shot back awkwardly.

I should have said something like, “adorable like a rejuvenated Vince Carter?”

–I was watching the Spurs-Celtics game on Sunday afternoon and Mike Breen kicked it over to Michelle Tafoya, who started talking about how mad Gregg Poppovich was at his time during a time-out in third quarter. She said Pop got in his team’s face and told them they were playing the worst offense he had ever seen. Then she said something I couldn’t quite hear and I had this exchange with my roommate.

Me: Did she just say he said, “you’re playing like you have some men in your shoes?”

Roommate: Haha. No, she said he said, “you’re playing like you have cement in your shoes.”

–John Oliver should win an Emmy for his Super Tuesday coverage. If you haven’t seen it, it’s here (NSFW). You won’t see it in that video, but when The Daily Show went to commercial, there was a shot of Oliver in the crowd and he said something to the effect of, “Jon, someone is touching my bottom! Un-hand me my bottom!” If there’s anything out there that’s funnier than John Oliver asking for his bottom to be handed back, I haven’t found it yet. Actually…

–The brilliant Sarah Silverman should also win something for her performance, in “I’m f*cking Matt Damon.” (Obviously NSFW.) Matt Damon is like the new Tom Brady, except actually perfect. Unauthorized, silly pot shot from a Jets fan who has no right…YES! Maybe it’s New York (New Jersey?) pride. “Let’s put that guitar down and go f*ck Matt Damon.”

–Whenever I see the name “Hannah Montana”, I read it “Hanno Mottola.” This is weird. Slight turn-of-the-century college basketball dyslexia, perhaps?

–Johan Santana is the best pitcher in baseball. Deal with it.

–You can peep my column on Chris Wright over at Hoopsfuture. (Which Chris Wright? I won’t tell you quite yet…though if you know college ball you can probably figure it out…it’s the first in a series, so there will be more coming.)

–My beloved Atletico Madrid are driving me nuts. They slipped from 3rd to 5th and then recovered back to 4th this weekend thanks to a Diego Forlan double (CLASS!). Nothing less than a Champions League place is acceptable this season after selling Fernando Torres for 1…billion…dollars. So it’s 4th or bust for the rojiblancos and their fans.

(Note: for those readers out there that don’t follow “football/soccer”, the beauty of this is that I truly care about whether or not a team wins “4th place.” This is great because it means the regular season in European soccer actually means something. This means every game has value, unlike in America, where we use regular seasons to make money before fetishizing the playoffs, i.e. when “it counts.” Seriously, it always counts, that’s why it’s a f*cking game that people compete in. Stupid Americans…But, for real, the difference between 4th and 5th is the difference between playing in the European version of the NCAA tournament and the NIT. Imagine if your finish in one season dictated your tournament status in the next. Now do the haters recognize why we love this game?)

Back to my original *Slamonline* point: Of course, it’s Atleti, the more-predictable-than-a-Shakespeare-tragedy football club, so 5th is inevitable, but pretending to have hope feeds the cynic, I guess. Twisted. Meanwhile, it seems, Ryan’s Everton might actually finish 4th over Torres and Liverpool in the Premier League. How happy would that make our dear Farmer Jones, the former player from my team playing brilliantly this year, yet still bringing the Spanish curse with him and inadvertently helping out another less fortunate team’s cause?
Happy enough to part with Mikel Arteta? Maybe…then perhaps we could both get what we want. Everton can take Jose Reyes. The Spanish Jose Reyes, not the Dominican God of Speed. But not Gary Speed…

–For the final word on the Shaq-Marion deal, let’s just listen to Fiona Apple, my third cousin 2 orchards replaced:

“I don’t understand about complementary colors
And what they say
Side by side they both get bright
Together they both get gray

But he’s been pretty much yellow
And I’ve been kinda blue
But all I can see is
Red, red, red, red, red now
What am I gonna do

I don’t understand about
Diamonds and why men buy them
What’s so impressive about a diamond
Except the mining.”

When I chose “Man in the Middle” as the name of my original Slamonline blog/column, believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to forecast the name of John Amaechi’s book. I thought it fit for two reasons.

1) The basic reason: The way Ray Clay used to say it during intros in the Jordan era was epic. It took a back seat to “At 6”6, from North…Carolina” as it should have, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t great. And, to be perfectly honest, I have Bill Cartwright’s elbows and I felt the need to pay tribute to the fact that the only way I could conceivably kill someone is by throwing an elbow. (Note: I wrote “conceivably” because I’m a something of a pacifist, one of the many reasons it never truly worked as a baller. “Oh my Gosh, I just accidentally nailed you in the face. Are you okay? Let me get you an ice pack!”)

The cynic in me also wanted to pay homage, if ever so subtly, to such life-altering pivots as Dalibor Bagaric, Dragon Tarlac, Duane “splinters” Schintzius and Olden “The impersonation” Polynice. (Note: When you look at ‘Polynice’ linguistically, Poly is a prefix that means “many” and nice is an adjective that means “good at basketball.” So if you were ever simultaneously wondering how Olden Polynice did it, and ‘what’s in a name’, there you go. I also just realized I should have re-named my small slice of Slamonline “Golden Polynice.” This is going to bother me for at least a half an hour.)

2) The deep reason: I had always meant to write a really long post about this, but never got around to it. I faced a decision—or so I thought—when I entered the real world a year and a half ago: Was I journalist or a blogger? I’d just spent three years writing whenever possible for the best basketball magazine on the planet and contributing to their website by periodically driving two hours each way, to and from Cleveland from the middle of nowhere, all for the love of the game and the love of writing. This didn’t settle anything. I had done blog stuff, mag stuff, and some basic journalism, too. If anything, my Cleveland experiences showed me how much fun basketball and words could be when combined with ridiculous amounts of caffeine.

But this was the real world, where the fun was supposed to stop. So I did the stare at people drowning in their Cobb Salads thing for a year, wrote more for SLAM and just accepted that, as far as stereotyping the specificity of the career I wanted to pursue, I was without a defining identity, caught between a medium that was starting to burst at the seams and another—that TheWire so beautifully illustrates—is struggling mightily. I just didn’t tell anyone that I was confused.

It’s important to understand this in the proper context: before the Gilbert revolution there was a lot of divisive, bipartisan BS between bloggers and journalists; a lot of the same stuff that drags politics down was having the same effect on the sports mediascape of that specific time. There was this whole, “either you’re with us, or you’re against us” vibe that made my career-wavering all the more acceptable in my eyes. Thankfully, it’s improved some. Journalists have blogs, bloggers write for newspapers, etc.

It occurred that the best thing to remedy my indecisiveness would be to stand for something. It’s cool to be young and unsure of where life will take you, but it’s also good to have a little bit of self-defined direction. So I thought about what I stood for. While I love to joke and analyze and occasionally shoot straight, the best thing I could think of was thinking, critical thinking. I’m a thinker. I think outside the box, inside the box, inside of boxes (most notably, my apartment), while breaking boxes (literally—although that’s a story for another day).

Along those lines, I was thinking about what critical thinkers could define what I’m about as young adult with a liberal sense of humor.

Enter Gin Rummy and Ed Wuncler from The Boondocks. In this scene, you have a on-the-cartoon-surface white gangster voiced by Samuel L. Jackson taking something originally said by former Secretary of Offense, Donald Rumsfeld, and flipping it by a) making it awesome instead of horrible and b) pontificating about, “known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns,” all while reprising a mini-tribute to the, “say what again!” scene from Pulp Fiction. It’s complex, thoughtful, head-spinning and awesome all at once.

The following video (NSFW) is the inspiration for the banner you see above:

As the potential three way deal between Dallas, Portland Jersey and its subsequent coverage proves, most of the time we (the media, in general) act like fools pretending that we know something, when we simply fail to realize that we don’t know (this is because we don’t know…). Get it? Got it? Good.

Speaking of unknown unknowns, who, other than the requisite folks from the Lakers and Grizzlies, saw the Gasol to LA–or Shaq to Phoenix–deal coming? Nobody knew about it, and thus nobody had any idea that they didn’t know.

Just because there was an the absence of evidence that Gasol was going to the Lakers didn’t mean there was evidence of that deal’s absence.

I repeat: The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. Learn it. Live it. Love it. Flip it.

Today Teeth, which features my little brother, hits the big screen in New York and Los Angeles. I’m running a shortened version of the original post I wrote when the film hit Sundance, but I’d like to say a few things about Teeth before I get to that. After the film plays in NYC and LA this week, it will be released in select cities on the 25th: Boston, Denver, San Fran (3 different Bay Area spots), Seattle, Philly, Houston, Austin, DC, maybe a few others. If it does well, it will expand from there. So, for the love of SLAM (literally), go see the film.

I saw Teeth in late April for a special family and friends screening and I thought it was awesome. Now, obviously I’m biased, but that doesn’t change the fact that I thought it was awesome. Case in point: If I didn’t like it, I might have mentioned it, but not tried to promote it. Most of you that read this web site, and the actual magazine for that matter, know that I’m brutally honest, occasionally to fault. So when I tell you to see this movie, I’m not pulling your leg.

At the screening I sat behind Ang Lee. Ang Lee loved it. I’m pretty sure if he knew of it, Lee would have said that Teeth was so gully, it broke O’s gangsta scale with a 5.5 gangstas rating.

Multiple reviews have labeled the film’s young star, Jess Weixler, a younger Heather Graham. I’d say she’s a better actress, too–Weixler won best actress at Sundance for a reason. Now, if you like good acting and find Heather Graham attractive, you should definitely see this movie. Now, if only one of those holds true, you should still see the movie. If, for whatever reason, you’re not interested in either of those things, you probably suck and I can’t help you. Sorry.

Teeth has a real Little Miss Sunshiney feel to it. The LA Times said it makes Juno, which I loved, look tame. Despite its ridiculous premise, the film feels more genuine than most of the processed crap that Hollywood methodically churns out.

The film was bought by Harvey Weinstein. If you watch Entourage, you are hereby required to see Teeth.

Yes, there are parts of the film–pun intended–that will make you squirm. Get over it. The killers in the horror films that you may deify aren’t trying to kill you. The New York Post recently ran a story about a man that died by trying to drink alcohol through his bum, so as far as 2008 is concerned, Teeth isn’t all that gruesome.

And, as the rest of what I’m posting here illustrates, my brother is the man. If Sly was a brilliant versatile actor, I guess that would make me Frank Stallone. And I’m cool with that.

Without further adieu…

“My Brother and Me” (SLAMONLINE, JANUARY 19, 2007)

If I told you that Reggie Miller inadvertently helped my brother land his first film role, you probably wouldn’t believe me. If I told you that in part because of the opportunity generated by doing Reggie’s movie, my brother landed a role in another Indie film about a girl with teeth in her vagina, you probably wouldn’t believe me. And if I told you that the feminist horror/comedy about the girl with teeth in her vagina made it to Sundance, you definitely wouldn’t believe me.

Well, kids, life is unbelievable.

My brother heads out for Sundance this weekend, two days after turning 21, in part thanks to being cast in the first movie Reggie Miller ever produced, Beautiful Ohio. Small world, isn’t it? The legendary shooter with the checkered history with the very magazine I write for lends a life-altering hand (via his casting director) to SLAM family.

It goes like this: My brother left early into his sophomore year at Carnegie Mellon’s theatre conservatory after landing a role in Beautiful Ohio. During the spring of his year spent away from college, he landed a major role in Teeth. He went to celebrate Beautiful Ohio’s release this November at the AVI film festival in LA, his face actually briefly appearing for less than a second in a video on NBA.com about Reggie walking the red carpet. He found out in December that Teeth unexpectedly made Sundance. (One of the best things about Teeth making Sundance has been that I’ve been able to call him “Sunny D”, mocking the old-school Sunny D commercials.)

A few words about my lil’ bro: The kid is freaking talented beyond belief. If any of you think anything remotely positive about me, trust, I’m the family runt. I have a laptop and sometimes I say shit. Hale (like the golfer) is prodigal with this acting thing. It started out when he was really young. He was born a month premature; in my family we joke that he popped out early because he had to get to an audition. By eight, he was fake crying his way into anything he wanted. I can’t tell you how many memories I have of my parents rushing downstairs to get an ice pack for him, only to come back upstairs and find him laughing his ass off because, again, we’d all been had. He attended the school for performing arts in NYC and starred in major productions his entire time there, which is like starting at Oak Hill as a freshman.

–Lamarcus Aldridge starts things off with the first six Portland points: 4 on buttery turnaround fades and 2 on a stickback. The Nets are sloppy at the outset because they dropped a grueling double overtime game to Toronto, in Toronto, last night. Oh, wait—that was Portland. A Steve Blake jumper makes it 8-1.

–Sean Williams, great effort and energy early.

–Brandon Roy is silky smooth. In other news, Ghostface Pryzbilla has been beasting inside, LaMarcus Aldridge has hustle to go with his range, and he might even flow. Those two are out-muscling Jersey’s young bigs, “Seansational” and The Boone-docks. Ah, yes, and RJ is 0-3. 17-8 in favor of the blossoming, upstanding young men from Portland.

–Multiple jumpers from Brandon Roy push the bulge to 24-10. I know I’m reaching into the “duh” bin on this one, but the kid can flat out ball.

–If it weren’t for 2 Malik Allen hustle plays, the Nets would be down 25-8.

–Martell Webster has his hands all over Richard Jefferson. He’s trying to be sly about it. From about 15 feet away, it’s just straight creepy. Even RJ, jockeying for position off the inbounds pass, is like, “Damn.” 25-12 Blazers at the end of the first.

Second Quarter

–Boki Nachbar taking it strong baseline and finishing well is always a welcome sight.

–Jarret Jack, hanging in the air, finds Travis Outlaw diving to the rim to salvage a potential turnover. Pretty play, but kids, never jump before you pass.

–As astutely pointed by out by NBA.com’s John Schuhmann, the Blazers scored on 12 of their first 18 possessions with Brandon Roy on the floor. Since he’s been gone—SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GONE!—the Blazers have converted on just 1 of 7 trips down the floor.

–Darrell Armstrong likes to go flying into crowds and scoreboards.

–Travis Outlaw: nice first step, nice face-up game. Not afraid to shoot it from 17.

–James Jones for 3. That’s been a theme this season. 34-24, Niketown.

–It’s official, Boki Nachbar needs to just go to the rim and stop worrying about whether or not his jumper will start to fall.

–Lacking the appropriate size to combat Ghostface and Aldridge, L-Frank goes to his bench to unearth the artist formerly known as Jamaal Magloire.

–Another James Jones 3 puts the Blazers up 17, 43-26. Nets fans boo their team for the second time tonight. Jones is 2-5 from the floor and 2-5 from 3. Maybe he’s allergic to paint. Not that it matters.

–Brandon Roy, sick crossover and jumper. YES network sideline reporter Michelle Beadle wanted me to write about that move, so, there, I did. I might as well have; she’s going to owe me so much money by the time I buy my first house, the first mortgage payment will be paid for by Yankees Ultimate Road Trip.

–The Nets have picked up the defensive intensity in the third. Even Vince Carter *appears* to be getting in on the act. Unfortunately, the Nets can’t put together a string of buckets to get themselves close to near where they need to be. And they can’t catch a break, either. 68-53, Blazers at the end of 3.

–Vince Carter just volleyball tapped out an offensive rebound to Marcus Williams, earning the Nets another possession. Malik Allen, the only Net playing well tonight, is the beneficiary.

–If you want to know why the Nets are currently down 16 (8:44 left in the 4th), look at the combined shooting numbers of the big 3: 7-32.

–After a tough conversion while being fouled—I’m not even sure how he got the shot off, super-strength maybe—Jarret Jack screams, “AND-1” and then briefly beats his chest.

–Jack’s facial expressions are amazing. He kind of looks like he wants to break into an intense crying fit, yet his team is up 21 and he’s playing really well.

–Half a period is remaining and the fans are hitting the exits. There’s nothing quite like Route 17 in inclement weather. For all intents and purposes, it’s OVAH, though I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the 6 Blazers fans sitting just a few rows off the court that are screaming their hearts out, chanting, “WIN BY 30! WIN BY 30!”

–The evening’s last notable event is Taurean Green checking into the game. You underground hip hop heads might also know him from his day-job: Murs.

Final Score: Portland A Lot, New Jersey A Little.

Postgame:

I tell Brandon Roy that he should consider changing the pronunciation of his last name from the English “Roy” to the French “Wah”, like Patrick “Wah”, the hockey goalie. The logic being he could up his Q rating. At first he says he’d like to stick with “Roy”, but then changes his mind and says he’d be cool with either. “Wha” is a lot silkier than “Roy”, which kind of sounds clumsy. I actually have a buddy named Roy and his neck is too fat for the rest of his body. Nothing silky about that. First SportsCenter anchor to incorporate this new usage of his last name gets ten cool points from the underground.

I was in the Raptors locker room after their win Friday night against the Knicks and I noticed something I never had before. Many, if not all, of the nametags above the lockers included middle names. By far, the most interesting middle name belonged to Jamario Moon: Ramen. That’s right, Jamario Ramen Moon.

“Like Ramen Noodles?” I asked

“No like Raymond,” he said.

It was then Anthony Parker and I decided his new nickname should be Ramen Noodles—or “Noodles” for short—for two reasons.

1) My reasoning seasoning: Moon was, and still is to some extent, underestimated and overlooked. He’s also incredibly inexpensive for the value he provides. Moreover, Moon came out of nowhere to take the NBA by storm; Ramen Noodles came out of nowhere to packetize the soup game.
2) AP’s reasoning seasoning: He is stringy thin like Ramen Noodles

(Sidenote: Since Lang is reportedly amazing at cooking Ramen Noodles, does this mean that if he was coaching the Raptors he’d be able to get more out of Moon than Sam Mitchell? I can just see it now…”Chris Bosh, you’ve got to realize that your job is to get the ball to Ramen Noodles. And if Noodles isn’t open, you’re going to have to kick it back out to Jose and have Noodles re-post; either that or find him up top for an ISO.”)

The one real exception to this vibrant, selfless vibe the Raptors give off is Andrea Bargnani. A confidant in the know described Bargnani as having less conversational personality than a chair. Ouch. At least he fits the international mold of the team.

Instead of just taking notes on the Raptors-Knicks game on Friday night, I decided to watch just one player. This was an exercise my dad tried to teach me when I went to my first Knicks game in 1993 (9 years old), suggesting I focus simply on Rolando Blackmon. I was too young at the time to appreciate it, choosing instead to marvel at the mediocrity of a Lee Mayberry/Todd Day backcourt and the bricks hoisted by the aptly named Frank Brickowski. Eventually, though, I took the lesson to heart.

On Friday night, I chose my main man Jose “Ho-ratio”Calderon. Simply put, I love watching El Ocho play ball. If I didn’t love Calderon’s game, I wouldn’t have tabbed him to run point for the All Apples team.

I wrote down everything Calderon did of consequence on Friday night. Instead of running it blow by blow, I’m running it summary bullet point style. Without further adieu, my scouting report:

–Calderon boasts Bill Raftery licensed blow-by ability: His first step to the rim is sharp, direct and, often due to a change of pace, faster than expected.

–He will not force anything unnecessarily: This is kind of obvious because of his obscene 6:1 assist to turnover ratio, but it’s still worth discussing. Calderon plays within himself. This is important because he’s staying true to his game. Some point guards, Kidd and Nash being the foremost examples, can use their complex wizardry to force their respective wills on the game. Calderon best helps his team win by doing the exact opposite: always doing the right thing and minimizing high risks. This is risk management at its finest. If only George Costanza had Jose Calderon for that presentation…

–He sees everything: Whether he’s moving fast or slow, Calderon always has his head up. Not all point guards are adept at consistently keeping their options open like this. Like Chris Paul, Calderon has many gears and he accesses them without immediately giving away his change in speeds. If point guards were cars, Calderon would be a stick shift, and more predictable point guards the easier-to-gauge automatics that specialize in lazy driving. Calderon’s ability to calmly survey his options, especially late in the shot clock, prevents defenders from being able to tell what he’s going to do next. This is part and parcel of his ability to catch defenders flat-footed; his deceptiveness works in tandem with his quickness when he beats his man to the rim.

–Even his misses are good shots: Calderon missed most of his jumpers on Friday night, but they were all either in rhythm or open shots. He’s shooting 51% (!) from the floor for a reason.

–He makes sure the floor is balanced: Part of the reason Chris Bosh burned the Knicks for 40 was that Calderon and his teammates usually made sure to space themselves when Bosh got the ball down low. Under Calderon’s floor-leadership, the Raptors played inside out and made the Knicks pick their poison. The Knicks chose not to completely sag off Toronto’s shooters and clog the lane; the result was the space that gave Bosh the cart blanche to eat NY’s bigs like hot dogs at the Gray’s Papaya Recession special: easily and often.

–He works the pick and roll like a pro: His use of the space created by a high screen set on his man is, at its best, dare I say, Stocktonian.

–He takes advantages of quick hitters: Nothing says conscientious point guard quite like rushing up the floor hit to find your shooters open in triple threat position at their favorite spots on the floor. Amazingly, this actually had a negative effect on Calderon’s assist total. Because he and his shooters were able to catch the Knicks guards flat-footed thanks to porous transition D, more than a few times Jason Kapono and Anthony Parker utilized up fakes and quick dribbles to get themselves even more open, increasing their shot-making chances in the process. These 3 or 4 instances negated potential Calderon assists. (This could lead to a very lengthy discourse about what should and what shouldn’t be counted as an assist, but we won’t get into that today.)

–He’s an inconsistent, occasionally lazy defender: Calderon routinely bit on up fakes—Nate Robinson twice sent him flying through the air—and gets beat to the rim too consistently. Against Robinson, he seemed to make a decision to not pay much attention to Nate, instead deciding to let Nate’s recklessness inflict its own damage on the Knicks. Fair enough, but this led to a laziness that burned him badly late in the first quarter when he bit on a Robinson up fake and then, after Nate passed the ball out, decided not to recover back to his man. The pass went back to Nate, who scored.

–He’s a good teammate and a natural leader: A natural born communicator, Calderon is good at exhorting his mates and proficient in the art of positive body language, not to mention his mastery of the elevated hand slap. He’s like the anti-Starbury.

If you’re not yet convinced, consider the following: When I asked him whether or not he was thinking about New Orleans, his response was classic.

“New Orleans?” He asked incredulously. “Why would I be thinking about New Orleans?”

His response indicated that either he had no idea where the 2008 ASG is being played or, at the very least, it was out of sight and out of mind. This illustrated something of greater importance: one way or another, he could care less.

Translating literally, tio means “uncle”, but it also roughly translates to the Spanish equivalent of Frank Lucas greeting somebody he appreciates with an enthusiastic, “My man!” And if you’re a fan of clean, crisp, fundamentally-sound basketball, that’s exactly what Jose Calderon should be: your man.

“Me and Doom, always be the best on the landing
Superheroes for life until our souls vanish.”
(Lyrics: Ghostface Album: MF DOOM – Dangerdoom. Track: “The Mask”)

Um, I’m not exactly sure why I decided to write this lengthy extended metaphor. I think there’s something in me that strives to give back to the entertainers and athletes that have given a lot to me over the years. Hence, the ten-part Ghostface-based “Pretty Toney” awards that ran when good ole slamonline switched servers, or the college metaphor that I ran in honor of LeBron James’ own metaphorical graduation.

If that’s the criteria for me writing huge metaphor posts, then it’s fitting that I’m comparing the ballplayer that’s meant the most to me as a Nets fan over the past six years with the two emcees that have most enriched my life over that same span (sorry, Talib).

Seeing that I have been just as excited as anybody for this potential Ghostface/Doom collaboration—tentatively titled Swift and Changeable—it occurred to me when I was given a feature on J-Kidd for SLAM 115 (on newsstands now!) that I do something extra. So I was thinking about Swift and Changeable when I realized that those two adjectives are very applicable when thinking about Kidd over the years.

I sort of just went from there…

(Note: The conspicuous absence of anything Big Doe Rehab related isn’t an accident. This was penned before that came out. If you need to read some great thoughts on BDR, read Joey.)

GHOSTFACE (Swift)

–One of a kind: Like Ghostface on the mic, Kidd’s game is completely unique to his skill set. He’s a certifiable Hall of Famer, and there will never be another like him. In fact, both are so unique that anybody trying to copy their respective styles would be caught dead in a lie.

–Team Leaders: Ghostface now leads a crew of relative nobodies towards acclaim. His brilliance has rubbed off on crew members like Trife Da God, Cappadonna and Sun God (Ghostface’s son…the TJ Kidd of this metaphor…spare moments in his father’s arena lead to heightened publicity—you get the picture).

While it isn’t Fishscale or Supreme Clientele, the crew-heavy album More Fish is eminently listenable, which, if you’re familiar with crew albums, is quite an accomplishment.Kidd, the epitome of unselfishness, blesses surrounding talent with his uncanny ability to make others around him better. Witness the unparalleled balance of the 01-02 Nets (an NBA Finals team that featured 7 guys averaging over 9ppg, but not one putting up over 15) and last season’s breakout performances from Mikki Moore and Boki Nachbar. That said, the most glaring evidence of the “Kidd effect” is the career of Kenyon Martin. K-Mart, though thoroughly derailed by injuries, has not and will not ever recover from how easy and simple Kidd made his life.

Corresponding Fire:

I smash ya’ll muthafukkas like a seedless grape
And hang ni—as like some ceiling fans in K-Mart plates
(Track: Blue Armor, Album: More Fish)

–3rd eye vision: Ghostface sees word combinations that other lyricists can’t see. His stream of consciousness rhymes are peerless. Kidd sees the floor in a way that nobody else can—and when you’re moving that fast, it’s all about reacting and intuition, neither of which you can teach.

Corresponding Fire:

Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet?
Why did Judas rat to Romans while Jesus slept? Stand up
You’re out of luck like two dogs stuck
Iron Man be sippin rum, out of Stanley Cups
(Track: 4th Chamber, Album: Liquid Swords – guest spot)

–Perceived deficiencies: Haters will hate because they think Ghost can’t sell and Kidd can’t shoot. The thing is, you don’t need to be a scorer to be a winner, as Kidd’s 11 straight trips to the playoffs and unbeaten record in international play prove, and you don’t need to go platinum to be good, as Ghostface’s widespread critical acclaim proves. Kidd doesn’t take a shot for 4 games; team USA rolls. Ghostface goes 4 days without putting out a new album and people cry. This forces him to come out with more albums at a faster rate than he probably should, kind of like the Nets’ offense which, due to spurts of passiveness from Vince and a lack of inside presence, forces Kidd to jack up bail out shots (usually 3′s) as the shot clock is winding down that kill his shooting percentage. Not that he’d be much over 40% anyway, but he probably wouldn’t be currently mired in the 30′s, either.

Corresponding Fire:

Bring it back like an instant replay
Please, get these wack records off of me
I can’t breath, asthma pump so I could stop the weez
It’s like they love garbage (yeah), for God’s sake, I’m the real artist
(Track: Ghostface, Album: The Pretty Toney Album)

-Ironmen: Ghostface also goes by Tony Starks, Ironman’s human pseudonym. As such, it’s no surprise that he’s still going strong into his later years. While Fishscale (’06) might not go down in history in the pantheon of “greatest hip-hop albums ever” quite like Supreme Clientele (’00), it’s brilliant for different, “cagey-veteran” type reasons. Not the barnstorming, take-all-prisoners, fire-breather that graced SC with a level of ridiculousness previously unheard of, on Fishcale Ghostface relies more on straight teamwork. The same can be said for Kidd in his later years. On the surface his 06-07 season doesn’t appear nearly as impressively dominant as his 01-02 campaign (when he was robbed of the MVP), but when you consider his age and the reality that his supporting cast doesn’t really fit his preferred style, last season’s digits are all the more incredible.

–Speed: Both play their respective games at a faster rhythm than most of their counterparts. Ghostface boasts impressive breath management to go with his rhymes and Kidd eats outlet passes for breakfast before breaking fast.

–1970’s soul vibes: Kidd’s old school trickery occasionally conjures up images of a more unselfish Pistol Pete Maravich. WATCH THIS. Ghost often samples 70’s stuff to capture a certain feeling to his music.

Corresponding Fire:

Sometimes I look up at the stars and analyze the sky
And ask myself was I meant to be here… why?
(Track: All I Got Is You, Album: Ironman)

–Recent Headaches: This winter has already seen Kidd voice his frustration with his team and Ghostface get mad at RZA for his production on the Wu’s most recent release, 8 Diagrams. Kidd would rather play with LeBron and Ghostface would rather play with himself.

Corresponding Fire:

We at the spot to chill, with a Fugee grill
She ordered the Kobe Beef like Shaquille O’Neal
When I walked in, the whole room got still
I don’t know how to put this, but I’m kind of a big deal
(Lyrics: Kanye West, Track: Back Like That (Remix), Album: More Fish)

–Relationship Issues/Breakups: Ghost is the most independent member of the WU, trashing them in public if need be. The news of Kidd’s breakup with then-wife Joumana became front page tabloid fodder before seemingly disappearing into thin air.

Corresponding Fire:

If it’s one thing I learned that, never trust a female
On no scale, you just confirmed that
Bounce to your momma house, pack your shit
I don’t care if you crying, you’s a ruthless chick

(Track: Back Like That (feat Ne-Yo), Album: Fishscale)

(Bonus tangent: Joumana used to be a Budweiser girl. On Clipse of Doom—a Ghostface track produced by, that’s right, MF DOOM—Ghostface, after yelling at some his people for disrupting his recording session, notes angrily that they are, “sipping on that bullsh-t Budweiser!” The lesson here is simple: if it’s less filling, it’s not worth it. It’s crap. If you want to drink club soda with a small percentage of barely noticeable distilled alcohol, then go ahead. Just don’t buy into the seductiveness of advertising that features Clooney-laced voice-overs and pretty horsies because that means you’re a sheep. And none of the dudes in this metaphor are sheep. They are wolves. Also of note: I have a friend from high school who we used to tease because his sister was hot. I haven’t spoken to him in a few years, and now his sister is a Coors Light girl. I’m not sure what to do/say.)

DOOM (Changeable)

–Masked from the public: Kidd rarely says anything risqué while Doom never shows his face in public. Each lets us know them through their game.

Corresponding Fire:

A lot of crews like to act like a violent mob
They really need to just shut the f–k up like Silent Bob
(Track: Saliva, Album: Viktor Vaughn: Vaudeville Villain)

–Adaptability: Both let their surroundings dictate how to approach each situation. Kidd, as discussed above, doesn’t need to shoot the ball to have a positive effect on the game. He can, though, if the situation calls for it, score in bunches. Doom doesn’t even need to bless certain tracks with his flow. He can, however, when needed, make an entire album about his life based on food metaphors.

Corresponding Fire:

Do the statistics
How he bust lyrics too futuristic for ballistics
And far too eccentric for forensics
I dedicate this mix to Subroc the Hip Hop Hendrix
(Track: Kon Karne, Album: MMM Food)

Produce for others: Kidd knows the best fastbreak is the one that rewards teammates for running the floor, even if his speed and vision are making it happen. More to the point, J-Kidd is cognizant of the fact that it’s rewarding to let others finish what he’s started. On King Geedorah, Doom produces the tracks, but lets his mates finish throughout much of the album. To wit, he laces fast tracks that run, giving others the chance at some lyrical shots.

Corresponding Fire:

Blaze trails that haven’t been traveled in a while
Scatter clues for those who equate the style
(Lyrics: Biolante, Track: Fast Lane, Album: King Geedorah)

–Disguised Identities: In a league whose image often revolves around race (read: Zirin, Dave), Kidd doesn’t seem to come up in any hot button basketball/race discussions (see: Nash, Steve and “MVP”). Born to a black father and white mother, Kidd’s racial identity is that of a mulatto yet he operates seemingly outside the parameters of the ever-popular race discussions. Doom, who pretends he’s a superhero, is actually just a fat guy with incredible skills that chooses to refrain from spitting redundantly lame bars about sex, drugs and violence, i.e. the things that the Jason Whitlocks of the world think are the only things rappers talk about.

Corresponding Fire:

Call him back when you need some more ‘gnac, horse-yak
Doing 80 down the Van Wyck on horseback
Ya’ man sick but he wreck tracks, puto
Get back too bro’, exactamundo
Viktor, the director, flip a script like Rob Reiner
The way a lotta dudes rhyme their name should be ‘knob shiner’
For a buck, they’d likely dance the Jig or do the Hucklebuck
To Vik it’s no big deal, they’re just a bunch of knuckle-fucks
(Track: Vaudeville Villain, Album: Viktor Vaughn: Vaudeville Villain)

ALL CAPS: From 2001 to 2004, Nets Public Address announcer Rick Zolzer became the first PA guy ever to pronounce a player’s name in what sounded like all capital letters. The rapid-fire way in which he would deliver Kidd’s name after a made basket or assist (JASONKIDD!) is an infamously corny (awesome?) signature by which Nets fans will remember their hero’s prime. Meanwhile, the signature of Doom’s prime as an emcee is the brilliant album Madvillainy, a compilation of songs without choruses. On one of Madvillainy‘s best tracks, “All Caps”, Doom tells his fans, “Just remember: All Caps when you spell the man name.”

Corresponding Fire:

Sometimes he rhyme quick, sometimes he rhyme slow
And vice versa
Whip up a slice of nice verse pie
Hit it on the first try
Villain: The Worst Guy.
Spot hot tracks like spot a pair of fat asses
Shots of the scotch from out of square shot glasses
And he won’t stop ’till he got the masses
And show ‘em what they know now through flows of hot molasses.
(Track: ALL CAPS, Album: Madvillainy)

–Chemistry: The Dr. Doom character that MF Doom bases his emcee alter ego on is a chemist bent on world domination. Kidd, as stat-sheet stuffing triple-double machine, is the best thing that’s happened to human chemistry since Jonas Salk cured polio.

Corresponding Fire:

I sell rhymes like dimes
The one who mostly keep cash, but tell about the broke times
Joker rhymes, like the ‘Is you just happy to see me?’ trick
Classical slap-stick, rappers need Chapstick
(Track: Rhymes Like Dimes, Album: Operation Doomsday)

It’s like SLAM homie and former owner of Fondle ‘Em records—under which Doom did much of his earlier recording—Bobbito Garcia maniacally screams on the end “Rhymes Like Dimes”:

“Now what are you supposed to say on the end of records? I don’t know! Yeah! Whoo! Yeah! Mashed potatoes…applesauce…buttery… biscuits…And I get lost. A yes, yes, yes y’all.”

Got home earlier than expected so I jotted down a few things while flipping through last night’s later games.

–Chris Paul plays the game with a beautiful self-contained composure that belies his blow-by ability. He can lull you to sleep and change speeds with the best. You can see how his elevated understanding of his position keeps him a step ahead of his man. When the mid-range jumper is on, forget it. It’s almost like his brain is a race car driver and his body is the car. Inside his own body, of which he has excellent command, he knows where to turn, when to turn and how plan the turn to keep those chasing him off balance. Nobody, save Nash and maybe Kidd, has a better understanding of their own gears.

–Monta Ellis, who dropped a career high 35 last night, continues to impress. He uses angles well and continues to shoot the crap out of the ball. While it isn’t really saying much, it’s still worth noting that the Warriors laid the smack down on the Teen Wolves in the second quarter with Baron and Jack on the bench. Ellis enabled this to transpire.

–I love the interchangeability of the Warriors. They can act as 5 position-less guys out on the floor, and though the shot selection is often purposefully selfish, there’s a selflessness to it that makes for a fascinating juxtaposition. Six guys on that roster (BD, Jack, Monta, Biedrins, Harrington and Azubuike) average double figures and the supporting four are all above 45% from the floor. It’s like BD and Jack provide the volume (scoring) and the rest fine tune the treble and bass. It makes for beautiful music. Given the freelancing that Nellieball allows, I guess it’s some sort of gangsta jazz (Gazz?).

–I have this mirror in my apartment that, if you’re looking at it from a certain vantage point, faces opposite the TV. As is the case with mirrors, it flips everything. This was fun during the end of the Mavs-Jazz game because I was able to watch Dirk Nowitzki shoot left-handed 3′s. It was as if Morris Peterson invaded his body. If you have a mirror in your domain, I suggest you try this out. It’s fun. Good win for Utah. It looked like Dallas might come back, but the Jazz held on. After a week of road tripping (1-3) through the Southeast division, they needed this badly.

–Not sure what I think of Kings play-by-play guy Grant Napear. He has a fantastic name and he’s fun, that’s for sure. I just don’t know if I was a Kings fan if I would want to listen to his loudness all the time. At the very least, he’d be very hard to fall asleep to because he’d always wake you up again. “Zzz…zzz…BENO!…oh shit, what just happened [rub eyes feverishly]..is everyone okay?…Oh, it’s just a Beno Udirh layup…” Speaking of the Kings, if John Salmons keeps on swimming upstream like this, will he jump and die?

“Shit, you could drive a car with your feet if you want to. That don’t make it a good f*cking idea.” – Chris Rock, who was courtside for Knicks’ brutal loss to the Lakers.

Even though it was enjoyable, I’m going to ignore Jamal Crawford’s second half smoke and mirrors act and run the angry rant I wrote when the Lakers fully opened up a bottle of whup-ass by going up by 26 midway through the third quarter…

“Fire Isiah!” the fans chant, as if that will change anything. Sure, it’s a good place to start, but still… If you paid over a hundred mill for a motherf*cking GEO with 24 inch rims, a booming sound-system and a broken transmission, would you simply change mechanics? In a related story, MTV recently canceled Pimp My Ride. Seeing that he runs Cablevision and all, James Dolan might want to look into something similar.

When Trevor Ariza nailed an insult-to-injury 3 at the halftime buzzer that put the Lakers up 18, it was so horribly ironic, Steve Francis probably laughed, but only after calling his agent and accountant.

Where do you even start with the Knicks? It’s tempting to call Nate Robinson’s energy a bright spot, but the inexcusable missed layups make that impossible. Speaking of inexcusable, if anyone’s seen Renaldo Balkman, please have him report to the proper authorities. As Russ astutely noted at halftime, Zach Randolph doesn’t play defense and seems to be playing for his numbers. Eddy Curry now has a “property of Andrew Bynum” tattoo. Speaking of mechanics, the Jamal Crawford Oven was broken during the first half; apparently, he called someone and they had it fixed at halftime—the results were impressive and exciting, but still too little too late. This is sad because Crawford when he’s on is still a better “offensive set” than whatever incomprehensible mishmash it is that the Knicks run otherwise. Could they actually miss Stephon Marbury? Don’t sneer, this is very possible, though ultimately inconsequential as well.

The final play said it all. Needing a 3, Isiah had only two options (Nate and Crawford) on the floor. As for the diagramming of the play itself, let’s just say the following: Joseph Henry may have invented the telegraph, but today, Isiah Thomas and David Lee perfected it (which is sad for Lee, because, as expected, he put forth admirable effort in the second half).

As for Kobe, he did it all this afternoon. The daggers, contested 3’s with hands in his face, sick no look passes, textbook MJ fadeaways, dribble penetration and lock-down D didn’t go unnoticed.

It’s funny. The Garden faithful suffered through Kobe, depression and then mania. As such, it made for a somewhat psychotic Sunday Afternoon. Watching Kobe thrive through the cynical prism that is currently phagocytizing this Knicks team–and its fans and its media coverage (GUILTY!)–was like watching a butterfly flutter in the sunlight through the window of an insane asylum.

I won’t lie. I went to this game because I ran out of gum, and also because I wanted to see the Warriors.

First Quarter

–Merry Christmas, youth is served. For the third straight night, Josh Boone and “Seansational” (as coined by the Sez) are both starting.

–You’ll probably see the Kidd behind the back feed to Carter on Sportscenter. It was really good in person, too.

–Two blocks for Sean Williams on the same possession. The kid has timing like Omar Little.

–The Nets start out up 17-6 and Vince Carter has started 2-8. He’s on pace to shoot 16-64. Taking all things into consideration (the Warriors are 15-5 in their last 20, the Nets are struggling to find themselves, etc.) this is all very baffling.

–Malik Allen’s first attempt from the field would suggest that his jumpshot, along with the weather, dropped in temperature after leaving Miami.

Second Quarter

–Two straight Nets’ possessions are punctuated by pretty bounce passes leading to dunks. People are surprised. The first was especially nice. Marcus Williams followed a Boki miss and found said Boki on the baseline; instead of rushing to the tin to atone for his miss, said Boki found Boone underneath for the uncontested finish. It was a perfect triangle of bounce-passing, almost, dare I say, equilateral (?!?!?!).

–Baron Davis has missed 7 straight shots.

–Josh Boone is officially beasting. Along those lines, Josh Boone is officially official. Rebounds, putbacks, and-1’s, blocked shots, running the floor, filling the lanes, finishing in transition, ovations when going to the bench…all good signs of maturation.

–Boone has missed putbacks on consecutive possessions. The fact that he’s missing multiple chippies is disconcerting, though not abnormal. More importantly, however, the effort is there. Then, after grabbing a hard-fought defensive board, Boone crashes to the floor and a pained look comes across his face. Again, the effort is nice to see.

–Buoyed by a spark provided by Monta Ellis and a Baron Davis 3, the Warriors are within 1, 62-61. 7+ left in the period.

–J-Kidd follows a 3 with a sick baseline fadeaway. The bulge is pushed back to 5, 69-65.

–Nets fans boo Jason Collins now. After Matt Barnes flagrant fouls him, Collins goes to the line for two and, after missing the first–which brings out the boos–he banks in the second. Then he makes this barely noticeable gesture which seems to say, “Boo me all you want, but I know more about help defense than you’ll ever know—and what you don’t know could fill libraries…but seriously, though, stop booing me. I’ve been on the Nets for six years and we’ve made the playoffs all six years. It’s not my fault they offered me so much money. Stop hating. I’m a nice guy who works hard and doesn’t cause problems in the locker room. Seriously, stop booing. Where are we New York?”

–Another BD 3 gives the Warriors there first lead since the very early going. After another turnover, BD misses on a drive, but Biedrins cleans up the mess. 95-92, Gully State. I can’t believe it took them that long to find their swag.
–Kidd finds RJ on the break. 95-94.

–Dubious charge called on the Boston Snackbar (please excuse the fact that he goes by like 37 different names in each Game Notes column). Al Harrington: floptastic. The fans–well, those that are here–are angry and there’s finally some life in the building.

–RJ drives baseline and finds VC in the corner for 3. Wet. The place explodes (relatively speaking). RJ and VC engage in a generic man-hug celebration. There’s still 24.6 on the clock.

–Apparently, Harrington has flopper’s karma, as he knocks Boki down and gets called for the offensive foul. Free throws made. Game won.

Call this the Josh Boone game. 19 and 13. Impressive. Vince Carter had 9 turnovers, which is stunning because I can only remember a few off the top of my head. Even more amazing, he had 9 turnovers and it doesn’t even matter because for the second game in a row he hit a dagger. As for the Warriors, 14-39 combined from the floor for BD, Stephen Jackson and Al Harrington really kills the excitement and spontaneity generated by their offense. I won’t stop watching them on league pass though. This game felt more like a blip than a trend.

I decided to go to Jazz-Knicks because, even though it’s early, I wanted to see if the Knicks are going to be competitive this year. The inauspicious start is disconcerting, but the Knicks also lost three games that they could have easily won (home to Miami, at the Clippers and at Sacramento). You could make the argument that without Z-Bo having to miss time for his grandmother’s passing and the strange Zeke/Starbury beef, they’d be 6-7. In other words, better fortune combined with less stupidity, and this team could easily be treading water like an excited labradoodle. (And let’s be honest, do we really expect anything less than mediocrity from this bunch? I thought not.) I wanted to see if they could build something after beating the Bulls on Saturday instead of doing their impression of a folding chair.

Pregame:

–Jason Williams is in the house, presumably to see his boy Carlos Boozer. I hear the words, “do the best you can,” come out of his mouth as I walk by. Sounds accurate. Best of luck, J-Will.

–Jarron Collins is like half the size of his twin brother. Jason should henceforth be referred to as “Twin and a half.” Or, put it this way: Jarron, in size, is the halfway point between Jason Collins and Ben Collins. Mathematically: Jason Collins + Ben Collins divided by 2 = Jarron Collins.

–Jerry Sloan holds court in the hallway outside the visiting locker room. He extols the virtues of Ronnie Brewer, inferring that Brewer feeling mistreated last season could have contributed to his excellent off-season work ethic. He also speaks with pride about AK-47—“he’s been terrific”—working with Jeff Hornacek on his shooting, mentioning that, even though shots aren’t falling with regularity, they still look good. Um, you can get a nose job, but that doesn’t mean you have a real nose.

–As mentioned before, the pregame video montage of the Knicks working out in conjunction with Kanye’s “Stronger” is lame. REMIX: “Heard they’ll do anything for a Klondike. Well, Steph will do anything for a…” Too soon?

–Isiah is booed like his team is 3-9 and he recently lost a civil litigation sexual harassment suit or something.

–The Jazz move away from the ball with purpose. Every cut is designed to have a certain effect on the way the floor is spaced and the options the team (operative word here) has. Contrarily, the Knicks are somewhat stagnant, but it appears to be ok tonight because their talent (Randolph and Steph) are both scoring at will. Given these opposite methods, it would only seem natural that the Knicks win only when their talent comes through while the Jazz have a system to fall back on—their flex set; predicated on uniformity and interchangeability—when things aren’t going their way. Structure and motion vs. A disorganized potpourri of screen/rolls, post-ups and drive and kick bailouts. The juxtaposition is staggering, especially because the Knicks are winning. Obviously, it isn’t this cut and dried, but the impression sticks nonetheless.

–A Starbury 4 point play puts the Knicks up 23-18.

–Overmatched on D, the Knicks do a good job of getting their hands in the passing lanes to disrupt flow and maintain their edge.

SECOND QUARTER

–A minute or so into the second quarter, Zeke is rolling with a Curry-Lee-Balkman-Jeffries-Nate quintet. All hustle and no shots outside 12 feet. Nate could conceivably start jacking 3’s, but without any other lead guards out there to take attention away from him, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

–To fill MSG’s need for someone who plays a sword-crossing leech, Turtle from Entourage is courtside. Sir Lancelot had a prior commitment.

–Immediately after Renaldo Balkman drains a baseline 15 footer the Jazz scouting report commits suicide. 38-33, Knicks. If I’m Isiah, I discourage Balkman from working on his shot, but that’s just me.

–Isiah brings Steph and Q back, and he puts Balkman on Deron Williams, hiding Steph on Ronnie Price. The Knicks still can’t contain D-Will, but the move pays accidental dividends when Steph loses track of Price, who, open, bricks an uncontested jumper. Thing is, Steph continues to be visibly confused by the switch, forgetting who he’s guarding, and three possessions later, he’s back on Williams. I’m almost wondering if he’s forgetting Price on purpose, because a) he’s Ronnie Price, it’s doubtful he’ll burn you and b) Steph’s ego, perhaps subliminally, can’t deal with the bruising that comes from the fact that his coach doesn’t want him guarding the opposing team’s point guard, especially on a night when he’s on fire.

–Blast from the past: Shakira’s “Wherever, Whenever,” or whatever it’s called, blares over the speakers momentarily, including the awesome line about her breasts being small so that you don’t confuse them with mountains. (Sidenote: I like this line better in the Spanish version of the song.) The reason I bring this up is because Eddy Curry is the opposite: His mountains are small and humble so you don’t confuse them with breasts. For bonus footage of Shakira gyrating, click here.

–Good grief, does Carlos Boozer have to do everything, right? I guess so, though memories of some imperfect defense against Randolph early are soothing.

–The Jazz cut it to 1 and the crowd immediately starts booing—um, expectations, much!?!—but the Jamal Crawford oven preheats to 325 for a mini 5-0 run that puts the Knicks up 6 at the half.

–D-Will has 15 at the half; those points might be the quietest 15 I’ve ever seen. Given the context of their offense, as discussed above, this isn’t really surprising. On the other side of the point guard coin, Steph’s 15 feel like 36.

–Crawford resets the offense and calls “motion.” I feel like I’m in fifth grade.

–Paul Millsap is beasting, dominating the Knicks inside and keeping the Jazz within 10.

–No signs of defense right now (about halfway through the period). The Knicks score and then don’t get back. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. At least it’s exciting. Crawford to Curry oops, D-Will dunks and Crawford behind the back circus shots are always fun.

–After D-Lee blocks a shot, Balkman goes careening into the Utah bench, trying to save the ball. Your word is symbolic and its definition is linked.

–Boozer has sat for 6+ minutes. Where is he? He can’t play with Millsap? Is this normal? I feel like I’ve asked this question before.

FOURTH QUARTER

–Remind me again why Jared Jeffries gets minutes. I don’t get it.

–Both teams are doing a good job of consistently going to the rim. Still no signs of defense. Boozer is getting anything he wants.

–3:33: The Jazz cut it to 2 when D-Will waltzes by matador Marbury. Neither Lee nor Balkman has been on the floor of late and it is showing.

–After a few back and forth turnovers, a Randolph put-back gives the Knicks a 109-104 lead.

–After a Jazz turnover—great awareness by Q to knock the pass away—Marbury takes it the other for one of his many fearless forays to the rim on this night.

–Kirilenko bricks a 3, but the Jazz grab the O-board and Boozer gets a three point play.

–Curry rims out a shot out of the post.

–D-Will finds a cutting Brewer to cut it to two.

–Off of Steph penetration, Crawford bricks a 3, but Randolph grabs the board. Two fouls later, Crawford ices it with two from the stripe.

Big game for NY’s big guns. Big win. The potential for the ninth seed is still there.

Bucks: The Bucks are now 6-0 at home. I caught the end of their win over the Mavs on Saturday night. Eazy-Yi put a nasty spin move on Dirk in crunchtime. Andrew Bogut played tough and came up with some clutch buckets. He looks much less girly-manish with his shaved head. The Bucks have now beaten the Cavs, Lakers and Mavs in succession, and with the Sixers, Hawks and Knicks coming up, this could conceivably be one of the best months in recent Milwaukee Bucks history. It won’t last but, like the tales of Thanksgiving that don’t include disease and genocide, it’s a nice November story.

Nets: This road trip illustrated why the Nets need Vince Carter. It’s funny. We (the media, generally speaking) pick on Vince for lapses in judgment and important sequences that lack aggression, but we rarely talk about how important he is to the Nets. Simply put, they’re a sunken ship without him. So here’s to you Vince Carter, offense rejuvenator and—gasp—difference maker, this Bud’s for you.

A few other points about the Nets:

–Sean Williams is a beast. If you haven’t seen him play yet, try and catch him, and not just for fantasy-junkie purposes. The best part is that, as Marv Albert and Mark Jackson were discussing in last night’s broadcast against the Lakers, he’s really only about 6″8. The small lineup that Lawrence Frank has been going with–usually a combo of Kidd, VC, RJ, Boki, Antoine Wright and Williams–has been very fun to watch. Less Malik Allen, please.

–Boki is averaging 16 a game over his last 4 games, hitting some big shots in the process. The Snackbar openeth.

–Antoine Wright played great defense on Kobe. Kudos.

Bulls: I can’t believe I allowed myself to watch the second half of their loss to the Raptors. They’re just terrible to watch. Just for kicks, here’s a choice selection from an Appleson chat I had with Russ about the Bulls:

Russ: I’m happy I’m out of town, because otherwise I would have gone yesterday (Bulls-Knicks at MSG). And then I would have DEFINITELY drank myself to death last night.

Jake: Yeah, that’s not needed

Russ: Stupid Bulls.

Jake: It won’t last forever, although it does seem like they don’t run any semblance of an offense. Maybe that’s just the lack of creativity. I can’t tell.

Russ: And everyone’s too goddamn small. And they don’t have ANYONE inside to open up the perimeter.

Jake:Look it’s not like the Bulls could have Elton Brand, LaMarcus Aldridge or Eddy Curry right now…I think you’re selling management short.

Russ: SHUT UP. I’m still dealing with the fact that in 2002 they could have drafted Amare Stoudemire AND Carlos Boozer instead of Jason Williams and Roger Mason.

Jake: You haven’t had enough time for those wounds to heal?

Russ: I’m just rediscovering that they ARE wounds, now that the small ball experiment is going up in flames.

Jake: Yeah, that’s like rediscovering an old scar

Russ: It also sucks that they had the third pick when the first two selections were Dwight Howard and Emeka Okafor. Either of those guys would have been nice.

Raptors: It’s fun to watch Jamario Moon develop. He’s knocking down open shots and working his tail off. Kudos to Chris Bosh for battling down low against the Chicago’s bigs and picking up 13 boards the night after pouring in 41 in a losing effort to the Cavs. And I can’t sign off without mentioning Jose Calderon’s 27:1 (!) assist-to-turnover ratio over the past two games. Call him “Ho-ratio” because he’s pimping mistake free basketball.

I have never understood why people fight over religion. I think a man or woman’s right to believe whatever they want is one of the greatest freedoms we can be afforded as human beings. Regardless of specific creed, every single person has their own unique relationship to that which is spiritual, and that should be respected.

My own personal relationship to spirituality has often been dictated by context. I’ve always felt more connected to my own spirituality when I’ve had to deal with death or other dire situations. This would only seem natural. Often, strong emotions when grieving lead to deep reflection.

As such, when I began thinking about the potential death of the Tommy Point recently, I got a little choked up. After the Celtics-Nets game ten days ago, I wrote:

The Celtics are playing so well right now, they’ve almost rendered Tommy Points meaningless. In other words, with the exception of the close win in Toronto, the difference hustle has made in the outcome of their games has been negligible.

At halftime of the Heat-Celtics game on Friday night, the Celtics were up 6. They weren’t playing particularly well, and the Heat, Wade in tow, were giving everything they had. It seemed like a foregone conclusion that the Celtics were going to pick it up in the third quarter and run away with another contest that wasn’t decided by extra effort. My mini-obsession with this theory was bursting through my basketball-obsessed veins. Could the importance of the Tommy Point be helplessly stuck in a blowouts-induced coma?

I knew I had to get at Tommy Heinsohn. I needed challenge the establishment and hear it from the horse’s mouth. This was going to be difficult, and the following analogy should help clarify.

How do you walk up to the Pope and try and persuade him that empirical evidence suggests that, for the time being, the commitment (hustle) with which you worship his God (in this case, also hustle) has no bearing on whether or not you’ll get into heaven (a 1 seed in the Eastern Conference and a lucky charms sprinkled road to the NBA finals)?

This is especially difficult when all the Pope, ambling through the press room that he essentially owns, wants to do is eat a bag of Miss Vicky’s sea salt and vinegar potato chips, and your sleep-deprived, incoherent ass is the only thing standing between him and that salty goodness.

Finally, after some Chris Berman-esque bumbling and stumbling, the point is made. Tommy, have the Celtics been so good that they’ve taken the meaning out of Tommy Points?

The Pope isn’t having it.

“No,” he says with the requisite coldness.

I return for the third quarter, ego shattered from being shot down, essentially an atheist rejected by the church. The Celtics build their lead in the third quarter, making it seem like my theory is still on point.

And then it happens. The Celtics go without a field for 6+ minutes in the fourth quarter and they scratch and claw out a hard fought win. Who could have predicted this? They win the game because James Posey plays solid defense on D-Wade on the final possession; they win the game because Rajon Rondo, the smallest guy on the court, circumvents Udonis Haslem by jumping around him and grabbing an offensive board before sticking in the put-back; they win the game because KG, despite looking deadly from mid-range, looked for his teammates instead of getting overly shot-happy; they win the game because Paul Pierce takes that extra step to get to the hoop, albeit one that the refs apparently don’t see; they win the game because they grind it out and find that extra gear.

Orlando went out two nights later and beat Boston, fully lifting Tommy Points and all of their worldly importance out of that metaphorical coma.

I should have known that Tommy Heinsohn was closer to the Hustle Gods (Terrence Howard, Charles Oakley, Eazy-E) than I was. Indeed, the situation became dire and they showed me why you should never lose the faith. Long live a competitive Eastern Conference, and long live the importance of Tommy Points.

You cannot fully succeed if you do not work hard. And you cannot win a championship unless you start flinging yourself into the scorer’s table.

- Coming back to the locker room from warm-ups Smush Parker jokingly laments the lack of alcohol in the team cooler. He then assures everyone that his hairless chest is all the evidence needed to prove he doesn’t drink at all. The Smush Parker sobriety test is now being conducted and Vin Baker has just run out to stock up on Gillette Mach3s.

- After a pregame meal of fish that looked suspiciously like chicken, we head out to the court just as the C’s Dance Squad leaves their locker room.
–During the Celtics’ pregame montage, “Oh Fortuna” from the Carmina Burana blares. I sang this in high school chorus. Trust, there’s nothing that has ever been written in Latin that is more gangsta than “Oh Fortuna”. It’s like The Wire of early 13th century songs. “Semper crescis aut decrescis.” Awesome. I’m getting chills. If you don’t know, now you know…

–You have to give the C’s video team all the credit in the world for getting KG to scream like a maniac at the end of the video montage. This is the greatest pregame intros signature since, “AT 6”6…FROM…NORTH…CAROLINA…” What’s great is that, unlike most pregame theatrics, it really revs the crowd up. I haven’t seen an NBA regular season crowd this loud since MSG in the early 90’s. The fans are giving the Celtics that sixth man that the crowd can be when its vocal powers are utilized properly.

–I can’t fathom how Penny Hardaway couldn’t get #1 from Dorrell Wright. How many dinners would it take?

–In honor of Boston accents, Paul Pierce is now known as “Pal” Pierce.

First Quarter

–D-Wade gets the start, so out goes Penny. Way to crush my dreams, Riles.

–Shaq finishes with one of those rim-rattlers that looks exactly like the logo to his s—tty shoe. Remember, the one that’s sold only at public bathro—uh, I mean Payless?

–Shaq still dwarfs KG. Think about that. But it’s pretty much just KG vs Shaq one-on-one with Pierce and Wade jumping in when the play is broken. The Big Fella has 6 and 3 already. Garnett has eight in six minutes. We’ve got a thrilla on our hands, folks.

-Pretty Ricky knocks down the pull up jumper from 15 feet. 19-18 Boston. It is definitely worth noting the form on his jumper. It’s easy to see on TV that he doesn’t have a traditional follow through, but in person it’s even more jarring. Such a quick release, almost like he’s allergic to the ball.

–Ugh, this Lil’ Phunk thing is so disconcerting.Though it was comforting that there were no players ogling Lil’ Phunk during the 60 second timeouts.

–Ray Allen is airtight on Wade. He’s not getting any jumpers off uncontested. Dude is like paint on a stripper’s body after a night with Aubrey Huff. (More Aubrey Huff jokes? Really?)

–Rondo with an acrobatic rebound and up-and-under over Haslem on the break.As Jake eloquently instructs: ‘He just circumvented Haslem. Write that down.” Crowd is on their feet, Boston up 3 – Miami timeout.

–The opening line in the song the cheerleaders are dancing to is: “Is there anybody out there looking for a party?” Scott Pollard then panned the crowd to see if anyone was saying yes. This happened. A Collins sounds like a Simmons. Only in Boston.

–The Celtics run the play that’s worked all season (Rondo to a posting KG, to Perk making a divecut), but it’s not gonna work tonight because Zo is there to kill it.

–Wait, nope, just worked. 23-16, Celtics.

–Smush Parker rocking the ‘fro! I want that!

–Hey, look! Smush Parker kind of dribbles like I do (almost off his foot fifteen times)! Finally, an NBA player I can relate to.

–Shaq exits so Pollard and Scalabrine can come in and not look as embarrassing.Speaking of Scalabrine it’s worth noting that Scalabrine is the ‘thugnificent’ to Jake’s Riley Freeman. Myles Brown just laughed. I promise.

Second Quarter

–Boston opens up the second quarter with Ray Allen, Posey, Scalabrine, Pollard, House. Otherwise known as Jesus and the Shuttlesworths.

–9:54: This Shaq/Scott Pollard matchup is like a fine wine; a fine wine after the wine taster spits it back in the glass.

–7:42: Penny Hardaway and Mark Blount get their signals crossed and Penny throws the ball into the backcourt. I’m with Penny’s frustration on this one; how could he have expected Mark Blount to cut to the basket?

–I just joined the Penny Hardaway for President Facebook group at the end of the First Quarter. Tough decision, too, because there were two other groups that earned some honest consideration: “Penny Hardaway is not dead” and “bow down bitch here comes penny hardaway.”

–Someone in the press up here: “I used to see Ricky Davis shopping at TJ Maxx all the time.” That’s about right. Rock that discounted, returned South Pole merchandise from four years ago, Ricky D!

–Mark Blount gets booed like(Collins did not finish the sentence. Is he leaving the joke for me like J-Kidd to a trailer? Um, ok.) Mark Blount gets booed because he’s Mark Blount. Sometimes it’s easier just to keep it simple.

–James Posey counters Smush Parker trey with one of his own. And I officially need a new pair of pants. 32-31.

–KG back to back jumpers from the top of the key; he’s fed off of Pierce dribble penetration. 39-35 C’s.

–Scott Pollard quoting Anchorman on the jumbotron is legitimately funny. We’re so talking to him afterwards.

–Look, this is why I’m not a D-Wade fan: the ball just slipped out of his hands, so instead of getting back on defense, his first instinct is to fall down. That’s his instinct. To fall down. Just letting you know that.

–Travis Roy in the house and the fans immediately get to their feet. One of the coolest guys alive. If you don’t know his story, click here:

–Penny’s still a pretty good face-up defender.

–Pierce counters Wade on the draw-contact and lay-it-in move. This is the best ballgame the Celtics have seen from another team all season. 42-37.

–Davis and his sofreshandsocleanclean uni hits a three and is immediately countered by the now 2-of-9 Ray Allen. He was in the top-10 in field goal percentage. Hah. 45-40, C’s.

–Rondo cuts through the lane, and KG finds him for an easy two. C’s by 6.

–Jason Williams throws the ball away because it’s loud. This shocks no one.

–The Heat have had some excellent defensive possessions so far tonight, collapsing on penetration late in the shot clock. Shaq’s presence has definitely been felt.

Third Quarter

–Boston comes out with a lot of energy after Doc Rivers screams the word “UBUNTU!” very loudly at halftime.

–Riles counters with a quickie timeout and probably calls Jason Williams a word that kind of rhymes with “UBUNTU!” in the huddle.

–Rondo dishes a sweet cross court bounce pass to Perkins for the dunk. The man in the front row with thebakedbeans.com t-shirt is pleased. After checking the website I’m going out on a limb and assuming there is very little talk there about legumes. 56-50 C’s.

–I was just about to ask the reporter next to me, “On a scale of one to ten, how annoying are these chips I’m eating?” But I know the answer is probably a 9, so I’m not asking. Lime & Black Pepper, take me home!

–Shaq baby hook from the days of yore and he’s on par for one those ol’ fashioned monster lines. He has 14 and eight right now. 62-56, Boston.

–The Celtics are running backdoor cuts like it’s Princeton – first to Perk then to Rondo – and the lead is up to eight again.

–Anyone else seeing the obvious correlation between this Lip Gloss song and VERY SPECIFIC SEXUAL INNUENDO. I’m not bashing it or anything – these 3-to-5 years olds in Lil’ Phunk need to hear this song if they want to be popular in middle school, if you know what I mean – but I think it’s pretty clear. This was pretty obvious to me on the first listen, but everyone acts like I just told them the end of the Sixth Sense in 1999.

–Just a beautiful Posey steal, to Rondo back to Posey for a dunk. Yikes. Rondo has seven points, nine dimes and five rebounds and he may be coming into his own tonight. Then Posey for three and it’s 70-59 all of a sudden. This may be one of those Celtics games that gets very uncompetitive very quickly.

–This is also James Posey’s best night as a Celtic. Up-and-under gives the C’s a 13-point lead.

–Two D-Wade assists bring, one on a pretty alley-oop to Davis, end the quarter with the Heat in shouting distance, 76-65.

–Kendrick Perkins and Rajon Rondo have been working very well together tonight, finding each other open on a couple of occasions, catching the Heat off guard (literally) in the process.

–A cheesy poem about James Posey:

It’s all rosy
Circles of Fire
Rings around the Heat
Heat is the absence of cold
Fat man in a little shirt
Defensive crouch, dumps like a trucker
Pat Riley’s hair is a pimp named slickback
Pockets full of Posey

Fourth Quarter

–James Posey is getting a little handsy with D-Wade because he’s seen commercials and he knows how much he likes falling down and getting up.

–A KG baseline jumper, Bird-esque and falling out of bounds, is just horrifying. How do you stop that? 84-69, Celtics.

–Smush Parker tripped over his own ‘fro and sprained his ankle. He will not return, since there is no barber immediately available.

–Another KG jumper. Jake and I agree that is one of the quietest 26 point performances we’ve ever seen.

–James Posey clubs Ricky Davis like a seal in Alaska, prompting a very loud, “NICE!” from some guy in the crowd. This is how Clint Eastwood still makes movies.

–Ricky D then knocks down a very open 2 to make the score 86-76 and the crowd gets audibly nervy. Timeout.

–The Celts roll out the clichéd Hoosiers ‘in my book were going to be winners clap-clap-clap’ clip on the jumbotron. You’d think that: A) Being up by 10 and B) having the JesusTruthTicket, they’d put Gene Hackman on the shelf for a while.

–Shaq picks up a rebound and that’s the first we’ve heard from him since the start of the third quarter. Where the hell has he been? Anyways, Wade just nailed a jumper and Jason Williams took a charge, the lead is down to eight and the Heat are playing four guards and Shaq. These next few possessions are where the game is decided.

–Well, if this is where the game is decided, it’s not looking good for a certain Boston team remaining undefeated. A free Shaq dunk and a Daequan Cook (yep, he’s in the NBA, I guess) layup and this game is down to four for the first time since the second quarter. This prompts an impromptu “let’s go Celtics” chant from probably the smartest sports fans on this Earth. Smartest sports fans in the world? Collins, I’m calling shenanigans on your regional bias.–300 ON THE JUMBOTRON! They’re gonna play High Fidelity next and make my night, aren’t they?

–Pretty Ricky will likely not be following in JJ Reddick’s footsteps as a coverboy for the better basketball dvds, but no matter, he of the negative follow through nails yet another three. 86-85 Celtics.

–KG IS SO COOL! He dunks on Ricky Davis after the play is called dead, stares him down then intimidates the refs into not calling him for taunting. In fact, he intimidates the refs into calling a ticky-tack off-the-ball foul immediately after that foul. If Hell froze over and I became a Heat fan, I’d be pissed! [Insert generic, obligatory White Hot Eboy reference here.]

–Incidental Hack-a-Shaq and he hits two of three (lane violation), but it’s a tie ballgame, 86 up.

–I guess this is where we find out whose number the Celtics call at the end of a close game. Ray Allen goes at Shaq, who now has five foul and will sit for Haslem. Allen hits them both in a what-did-you-expect fashion.

–RONDO NAILS A JUMPER! RONDO NAILS A JUMPER! CANCER IS CURED! He’s got 9, 10 and 7.The baseline jumper from Rondo is Boston’s first FG in nearly seven minutes. Crowd erupts, Miami timeout, 90-86 C’s. I mean, what are the odds that a 7 minute field goal drought is ended by a Rondo jumper? 47:1?

–We’re standing now, for we have no option as everyone is standing in front of us. It’s gotta go to D-Wade here, he’s in rare form, even if he’s hurt. He has 21 already.

–Wade miss then a pass to no one then a Wade tough layin. Well, we knew it was going to him.

–Haslem steal at midcourt. Cook flys in for the dunk and is fouled by Posey.

–The Heat have the lead! The Heat have the lead!

–Wait, no, he missed the free throw. 90 up.

–Pierce take, but no foul call. This is becoming stream of consciousness and I apologize — the ticker is racing a little here. KG fouls Haslem for pretty much no reason after the rebound. And he’s headed to the line.

–Udonis nails one of two and the Heat have the lead! Seriously this time! 91-90, Heat, 32.7 seconds left. This would be a nailbiter if we weren’t trying to quit that sort of thing.

–Timeout Boston. Miami has been doubling KG, by the way, so they’re probably going to work it down to him and swing it to Allen. Just a guess. I should timestamp this: 10:05 Eastern.

–Pierce in the post for a way-too-easy layup on an Allen pass and jumpstop (I’M PRETTY SURE HE WALKED). Timeout Miami. 92-91 Celtics, 25 seconds left.

–It’s Mrs. Wade’s Little Pookie on an iso up top on Posey. Pookie dribbles out the clock and settles for the top of the key jumper. Brick. Ballgame. 8-0. Note to D-Wade: You get in Chuck’s five by taking the ball hard to the rim on the game’s last possession. Now, we’re not even sure if that was the right option, but at this juncture a VC-esque jumper at the end is no way to establish yourself as more than a pookie-mon.

–I love that “experts” (Bill Simmons, Charles Barkley and a few others I can’t remember right now) are picking the Cavs to miss the playoffs. This is just so mind-numbingly stupid; I can’t really wrap my mind around it. I’m picking them to win the conference, and that might be a stretch, but still…this is a team that plays excellent defense and boasts arguably the best young player in the game. They’re 4-3 right now. They’ve lost every game they’d be expected to lose (Dallas at home, Phoenix on the road and Utah on the road) and won every game they should have (Knicks at home, Warriors on the road, Kings on the road, Clippers on the road). They’re taking care of business, and just like last year, everyone is hating. Did anyone else catch the stamp LeBron put on the Kings in the fourth quarter on Friday night? He made a steal and literally ran through the Kings, who tried to slow him down by fouling him. They couldn’t because he was too fast and strong. It was like someone tried to reach out and push an already in-motion Adrian Peterson. Then, he hit one of those “how-did-he-manage-to-get-that-off?” and-1′s after getting clobbered. Just awe-inspiring stuff.

–Also, last night against the Clippers, Damon Jones actually knocked someone down. This was funny.

–During halftime of last night’s Heat-Knicks game, the woman that has replaced Bobbito Garcia (FREE BOBBITO!), interviewed Shaq. Shaq spoke at length about why winning a fifth and potentially sixth title is important, saying that he wants those chips because he wants to be mentioned in the same, “breathora” as Michael Jordan (6 titles) and Magic Johnson (5). The amazing thing was that not only did he make up the word “breathora” (breath + plethora = breathora), he used it about 5 times during the interview.

–Caught the end of Pistons-Sonics last night. With the game hanging in the balance, the Sonics tried an alley oop to Kevin Durant from out of bounds near mid-court. The ball was thrown too high and sailed out of bounds. I think it was Snapper Jones who said the Sonics were trying to catch the Pistons off guard. It’s such a precision play. In a tight spot like that you just shouldn’t do that. The Sonics had fought valiantly to come back. To throw it away (literally) like that is just sad.

–Last but not least, for those of you didn’t stay up for INSIDE THE NBA last week after the Mavs-Warriors, you missed a treat. Frank Caliendo, also known as Frank TV, did some amazing impressions, including a stellar Charles Barkley impersonation. Check it out.

–Ray Allen is pretty much alone in the Celtics locker room. Figure he must have lost a game of rock-paper-scissors on the bus with Paul Pierce to determine who would talk pregame. KG is safe in the back of the trainers room. Oh yeah, Rajon Rondo is out there, so is Tony Allen and Eddie House. And Scot Pollard is watching tape of Nets/Wizards. No one cares, though.

–Pollard does something doofy—I wasn’t paying attention so I can’t tell you exactly what it was; I think he may have pulled his jersey up and started rubbing his belly or something—and Eddie House, after Pollard goes into the trainer’s room, comments, “That boy is retarded.” He’s kidding of course, but it’s still kind of funny. I feel obligated to mention right now that I’m extremely jealous of Scott Pollard. He has the best job in the entire world (get paid to watch the Celtics and occasionally pay attention to Eddie House’s musings), and I wish I could be him. There, glad I got that out of the way.

–An anonymous source lets me know that Kendrick Perkins had 3 pregame hot dogs. As much I’m tempted to criticize Perk for this, 1) Perk is a beast; beasts have completely different digestive capabilities when compared to normal human beings and 2) Perk eating 3 hot dogs is equivalent to a regular person eating 1. As such, it’s just one freaking hot dog; nothing to get bent out of shape over.

–Gary Sussman, beaming like Mario Batali, literally drags us into the media room to make sure we eat Thanksgiving dinner 14 days early. It’s really good, though, so we won’t complain.

–In response to Japanese reporter Karou Sanada’s claim that she has a friend whose favorite rapper is Kanye West, Russ writes a list of over 50 rappers that he likes more than Kanye. Fun facts: the task was to name 50 rappers better than Kanye, and 50 Cent was not chosen; Sam Rubenstein and Jake Appleman came in at 56 and 57; Russ came up with 50 before he even thought of Jay-Z.

–KG on the Celtics in person is still sort of weird. Thought about wearing the T-wolves throwback tonight.

FIRST QUARTER

–Nets win tip. Perk jumps for the Celtics despite the fact that KG is taller.

–Richard Jefferson goes baseline on Paul Pierce, and gets fouled. From our vantage point—and we’re pretty close to the play—it looks like it was a nearly impossible angle and that Pierce bailed him out. RJ drains both.

–KG shoots over Kidd at the free throw line, off the rim and over backboard.

–Kidd oop to VC that I don’t see. Reversed nicely.

–The Nets go zone early.

–Carter defensive rebound, tied up by KG. VC can jump, but KG is tall.

–Rondo jumper.

–Pierce drive and kick to Rondo, lightning fails to strike twice.

–Pierce intercepts VC crosscourt pass, takes it the length but can’t convert, falling into the crowd on the baseline. The Nets take advantage of the four on five, and an unguarded Kidd hits a long two. Tied at 6.

–KG misses a 20-footer, Nenad Krstic and Richard Jefferson combine to tip it in the wrong basket and innocent bystander Kendrick Perkins (who is actually headed the other way already) gets a free two points. As do the Celtics. If he ends up breaking Wilt’s scoring record tonight there’ll be cause for controversy. You’ve gotta love the rare NBA “own goal”.

–Tony Allen is in for Pierce.

–Foul, Tony Allen.

–Ray Allen, three.

–Jason Kidd.

–Ray Allen, another jumper. He’s got 12.

–Jefferson drive, scores over Garnett.

–KG jumper from the corner. 22-all with 2:45 to go in the first.

–Eddie House! He’s booed as the traitor he is.

–Jefferson dunk straight down the gut. KG wisely gets out of the way. RJ then yells at, uh, Wayman Tisdale. Sussman: “MOVING ON UP!” Get it, because his last name is Jefferson and the Jefferson’s moved on up? Despite the apparent sarcasm, I very much like this call.

–Enter the Snackbar for RJ.

–Eddie House beats the 24-second buzzer with a corner trey. Dagger-esque.

–Antoine Wright for three. First points for a Net not named Kidd, Carter or Jefferson.

–P squared replaces R squared. Therefore P = R.

–KG. Glass.

–Glen Davis sheds his warm-ups, approaches the scorer’s table, then heads back for a time-out. He will soon come onto the floor joining Ray Allen. Big Baby Jesus, I can’t wait.

–Out of the time out, Eddie House hits a three. Not the first time he’s done that in this building.

–Paul Pierce. Surrounded by talent, Paul Pierce is good at basketball. In case you didn’t know…

–Nothing doing for the Snackbar. Garnett corrals the board, and Pierce draws a foul on Wright down the other end.

–Pierce makes the first, misses the second. Long rebound to Glen Davis, to KG. Allen winds up missing a corner jumper, Kidd throws an uncharacteristically reckless slow rolling pass upcourt to no one in particular. Jefferson saves it, and the Nets wind up with a Wright dunk off a frontdoor cut. Assist, Jason Kidd. Incredible sequence. Kidd scores the next time down as well.

–And Kidd again, to the Snackbar for the corner three. 41-39, Nets.

–Pierce down the lane, scores over Collins, who’s also called for the foul.

–The Celtics are getting plenty of second-chance shots, they just aren’t doing much with them. Allen and Garnett are a combined 7-18 from the floor.

–Big Baby keeps it alive, Perk taps it out, House hits the three.

–Richard Jefferson, continuation. He does not hit the free throw.

–Pierce misses a fallaway (that completely loses RJ), but Big Baby is there to clean up.

–Kendrick Perkins fouls Richard Jefferson, who’s driving so recklessly tonight he should get points on his license.

–KP in the paint. 49-45 Celtics.

–Paul Pierce, for three from up top. Good. The Celtics are building the lead with Garnett on the bench. The Nets realize this, and call time. The Celtics also realize this, and send KG back out there for Glen Davis, who has seven rebounds in five minutes. That works out to roughly 65 rebounds per 48.

–The Big Baby/Boki Nachbar matchup is interesting for obvious size reasons. Not surprisingly, Big Baby is late on a closeout, and Boki nails a 3. Also not surprising is Boki’s inability to hand Big Baby on the defensive glass.

–Richard Jefferson, with no regard for his own life, jumps straight into Kendrick Perkins. Who, lest you forget, is a beast.

-Jason Collins is better at guarding KG than Jamaal Magloire.

The Nets trap full-court, and all it does is earn Krstic a foul, and Pierce a trip to the line.

Eddie House leads all Celtics in neck tattoos. The House also comes with a microwave.

Rajon Rondo earns his second assist by feeding the Celtics assist leader (well, for this game) Kendrick Perkins, for the two-handed dunk.

Malik Allen fouls Ray Allen while Tony Allen waits to re-enter the game. Allen Iverson has nothing to do with it.

–KG gets a tech for arguing a late whistle. Indeed, I had remarked, “oh, wow, that was late,” after the foul was called. KG, with this menacing glare in his eyes, is berating the officials, saying, “five seconds late.” Pretty sure he said something else of a more profane variety to earn him the tech, but that’s what he was mouthing afterwards. Jefferson, automatic from the stripe, hits the freebie.

–Celtics lead 57-52, there’s a time out and 14.2 seconds remaining in the half.

–Rondo drives on Kidd, knocked out of bounds to the Celtics. 2.7. Inbound to Garnett (better idea) who hits from the corner as the buzzer sounds. 59-52 Celtics at the half. Jefferson leads all scorers with 20.

HALFTIME

–Wayman Tisdale!

–Celtics are out-rebounding the Nets 28 to 15, both teams are 14 of 17 from the line. Weird.

–Pierce misses. So does Kidd. Garnett is blocked from behind by Magloire. Out of bounds, back to the Celtics. The Nets call time out to bronze Magloire. And, to bring it all back full-circle: Pierce misses.

–Rajon Rondo pumpfakes underneath and is buried beneath an avalanche of Nets wing players. Carter gets tagged with the foul. The Celtics inbound and turn it over.

–Jason Kidd drives down the left wing, tries to flip up a left-handed layup, and is eaten fouled by Glen Davis.

–Paul Pierce with the drive, the baseline, the up-and-under layup. Foul on Jefferson. Enter Josh Boone for the first time tonight.

–Kidd misses a corner three, Ray Allen dribbles around and hits a 20-footer. C’s by 17.

–One Wright doesn’t make a basket.

–A Nets drive ends with roughly 27 players laying on the floor and a jump ball between Davis and Wright.

–The Truth. For three. Celtics by 20, 75-55. If you’re scoring at home, that’s 16-3 for the quarter with 3:51 to go. Time out, Nets. How about a little bit less stagnation and a little bit more MOVEMENT?

–Vince Carter, layup. There you go.

–Paul Pierce, corner three. Maybe guard that guy. He’s got 23.

–Nets turnover.

–Pierce misses a pullup in the lane, Garnett collects the rebound. Pierce ends up taking another three, which he misses. On the other end, Boone is fouled by Davis. Misses both. Garnett rebounds.

–Offensive foul, KG.

–Foul, Glen Davis. That’s four. Jefferson hits both.

–Allen, to Rondo, bucket.

–VC driving dunk, lands on Pierce’s foot, and his right ankle buckles. Goes down hard, clutching at it in obvious pain. The Nets foul to stop play, and he’s helped off by Collins and Malik Allen. Be surprised to see him back tonight.

–Anyway, Ray Allen to the line, hits both.

–Jason Kidd. He’s got 13.

–Ray Allen, for three.

—Snackbar, for zero. Garnett with his 12th board to go with his 12 points.

–Big Baby muscles in for the reverse layup. That would be five assists for the Big Ticket.

–Wright over Ray Allen at the end of the quarter to cut the Celtic lead to 21. Don’t call it a comeback.

FOURTH QUARTER

–The Snackbar drives on Big Baby, who’s called for the block. One of two.

–Pierce to House, who misses a contested three. Davis out-jumps a pair of Nets for the rebound, and slings it to House underneath, who gets the layup and the foul. C’s by 23.